Homecoming
By Maurice Lane
"You will go, then."
The man turned from his contemplation of the
twilight. Despite the cold, his breath
did not steam. His eyes were not those
of a dead man, though.
"Look, please understand that it's not because of
anything that anyone here said or did.
You took us all in, and you didn't have to -"
The woman sighed somewhat wearily. "We could do nothing else, as you well
know."
"Yes, Hraefna, we've gone over this
before. I'm just saying... I'm just
trying to say that I'm not sorry to have come here. It's been..." The man spread his hands. "It's been great.
"But it's not home."
Hraefna looked at him for a long while. "It could become your home. There is no question that you have earned
your place here." Her eyes (and
such eyes! Grey as the Baltic sea in storm and twice as dangerous) awkwardly
lowered. "You would be missed...
by some of us."
The man shrugged, awkward in his turn. "I know. I still must go. I wish
that I didn't have to." The
silence rolled between them for a time; always practical, Hraefna broke it
first.
"Ah, me.
Let it never be said that Hraefna of the Valkyrie ever needed more than
a year before she would stop attempting to break a stone wall with her
head." Incredibly, there was even
a slight smile on her face. "Almost
a year, perhaps, but not a full one. We
will speak no more of it."
"Hraefna..."
"Have done, American. It is your wyrd to go, so you will
go." She paused. "But... if
it were my wyrd to follow, I would - though Heaven, Hell or the All-Father
barred the way. Nay, do not speak of that either: those bones are too old and
bitter to gnaw on again."
The Valkyrie straightened. "Come. You have
farewells to offer."
...
The two reentered the great hall. Night had come, and the feast was just
beginning. Already the air was full of
the merry sound of boasts made amid innumerable beakers of ale, with the pop of
the fire keeping crackling counterpoint.
After a year, the sounds and sights - and smells, to be sure - were no
longer truly alien to the American.
Indeed, by now it was pleasant and relaxing.
But it wasn't home.
The American's thoughts were disrupted by the call
of one of his countrymen.
"Hey, Slick!" Internally, the American grimaced. He earned the right to call me that, and I love the man like a
brother, but I'll never get used to having a nickname that's associated with
What Happened...
'Slick' slid onto the bench. "Evening, buddy. How was the fighting today?" His companion grinned extravagantly.
"Couldn't ask for better. Died only twice, and the second time was
only because it was five to one. Hey,
is my head on right tonight?" The
two chuckled dutifully - the joke was as old as Valhalla itself - but 'Slick's'
companion grew more serious.
"So, you're leaving."
"That's what Hraefna asked."
"Big surprise there, buddy: she's nuts about
you, not that you could drag that out of her with wild horses. A shame that you don't want to do anything
about it, though."
"I'm married, remember?" There was a pause.
"Yeah, I know.
I should, dammit: I was there when you said goodbye to her. Sorry."
"It's OK.
No, really it is."
"Is that why you're leaving?"
'Slick' shrugged imperceptibly. "It's all part of the same thing. I like it here, but it isn't where I
belong. I want to go home. I need to go home." He grew silent: his companion cocked an
eyebrow.
"Look, if you don't spill it now, you may
never. What is it?"
"Do you feel the need? To go home, I mean?"
His friend laughed. "Of course I do. Just
not as badly as you do, I guess." He looked sad for a moment. "I didn't have anybody, you know? Well, I had parents and sisters and even a
girl, sort of, but we weren't really what you'd call close. Here..." - he grinned - "I fight
all day and drink all night, the folks here treat me just fine and, best of
all" - the grin turned feral - "I get to slice and dice Nazi butt on
a regular basis." Quick as
lightning, a knife appeared from his sleeve; his throw buried it into a wall
three inches from a cringing thrall's ear.
"Isn't that right, Otto?
What's the matter? You don't
like Arbeit Macht Frei when it's a Jew saying it to you? Then
either do something about it or get us heroes more ale." The thrall fled, the tattered rags of his
uniform flapping behind him. 'Slick' did not join in the laughter.
"Yeah, I just love some of the things
about this place." His friend
shrugged.
"If that murdering bastard doesn't like it, he
can always leave. There's worse places
than this, and that guy earned a one-way ticket to the worst of them. It's not my problem if the All-Father took
our showing up as an excuse to do some housecleaning. None too soon, either."
'Slick' nodded, reluctantly. "Maybe. But it's one more reason for me to go home."
His friend spread his hands. "Then go, brother, with my
blessing." His face softened. "I'll miss you, though."
"Yeah.
Me, too." The two rose and
embraced. 'Slick' started to
laugh. "Even if you have horrible
tastes in aftershave. Do you know, I
nearly asked the stewardess to find me another seat?"
"Damn good thing that you didn't. Besides" - his friend stroked his beard
- "it isn't an issue anymore."
Hraefna took this opportunity to tap 'Slick's'
shoulder. "The All-Father would
have words with you before you left, hero."
"Of course, Hraefna. Be careful, buddy."
His friend snorted.
"Yeah, like that's going to happen, to you, me - or anyone
else of the Forty."
...
The All-Father never moved from his chair, as near
as the American ('Slick's' persona had slipped from him like fog as he
approached) could tell. Legend had put
him there, and what tattered belief remained kept him there. It did not matter: he was still master of
this Domain, and it showed.
His ravens (Munin had finally begun to recover from
its wounds) cawed the American's arrival.
The ageless eye speared at him as Odin's head rose from his
contemplation of the world.
"So.
You have decided to leave us."
The American bowed: it seemed the only appropriate
thing to do. The All-Father sighed.
"Come closer, hero: these words are for you
alone." The American drew
closer. Odin looked down at him from
his seat.
"If it were in my power, I would keep you - all
of you - whether you wished it or not.
I have thought long and hard on just how to keep you within my grasp,
once you entered it. But I cannot,
despite my need. I have to content
myself with cupping my hands instead, hoping that enough of you will not slop
out the side. It burns my gut to see
each of you leave here: already the Forty are the Twenty-Five, and too soon to
be the Twenty-Four.
"But what can I do? Against wyrd even the All-Father struggles in vain. You have done much to aid me already by your
presence: I have used all of you to shame those who struggle with honor and
break those who have lost that struggle.
Never let it be said that Odin stands in the way of a true hero.
"But how I need your strong right arm in the
days ahead. Ragnarok comes..."
The American closed his eyes. "Would that I could, All-Father. But this isn't where I belong." He
opened his eyes. "I need to go home,
sir. It calls to me, day and
night. You're right, it's my wyrd to
go.
"I wish that you'd reconsider my offer,
though..."
"NO!" For a moment, it looked as if Odin
might actually rise from his seat.
"Speak not again of 'forbearance' and 'mercy' and
'accommodation'! I did not seek feud
with the White Christ, but I will not submit tamely to him, either. If my foes think themselves in the wrong,
let them pay wergild to settle it - and if they do not, let them come again and
face us in open battle! I will not take
their charity, for the sake of their honor and my own!" Looking at him, the American could see once
again just how this place survived relatively intact in the face of a hostile
cosmos.
The All-Father took a breath. "I know that you meant it kindly,
American, but it is not your place to riddle out this puzzle. Do not concern yourself with it."
The American bowed.
"Then I will simply say for all to hear that the All-Father is the
best of ring-givers and leaders of warriors, and that his hall will give good
welcome to all true heroes."
Odin grinned like a wolf. "That tale the All-Father has no issue
with." He raised his voice. "Know that this man is guest-friend and
holy, unless he break faith with us, or the world ends. Let neither warrior nor shield-maiden hinder
him as he goes to his wyrd.
Hraefna." The Valkyrie
stirred. "You know the way to his
home. Take him there as far as you
may."
The two left to the steadily increasing sound of
tankards hammered on rough oak boards.
Odin watched them go, his eyes hooded.
Now, only Twenty-Four. I grow
miserly, in my dotage...
...
The adventures that the two underwent to reach the
American's home were many, but not to be spoken of here. Let it be enough to know that the two
suffered hardship, danger and on several occasions, the imminent threat of
destruction. Let it be enough, for
there are some things that are not the business of even a half-omniscient chronicler. They struggled, and journeyed, and
prevailed: that is all that any need to know.
And, eventually, they came to a place where Hraefna
could not go.
Their leave-taking was sedate, almost formal:
everything that could be said, had been said - or no longer needed to be
said. Hraefna left, and the American
stayed: and no tears were seen where the other might see. He did watch until she disappeared into the
distance: he owed her that much. It
hurt more than he thought it would.
But wyrd is wyrd.
Eventually he turned and walked the rest of his long road alone.
...
It was all very embarrassing, the way that people
made way for him. There was no
servility or fawning: but everyone kept bowing or saluting. Under other circumstances, this might have
led to crippling shyness, but the rising excitement prevented it. He was almost there.
He was there.
Through the Gates he could see the spires of the Eternal City. His true home, seen at last for the first
time; even at this distance, it was enough to wash away the cares of his
life. You could feel it cleaning your
skin -
Guiltily, the American realized that the angel at
the Gate had said something to him.
"Sorry?"
The Seraph smiled.
"Quite all right, sir: many react as you do. I had simply noted" - a golden tail
waved at a large Book - "that you have been expected for quite some
time."
The American breathed out, heavily, almost as if
that breath could also banish the confused memories of butter knives and bare
fists against box cutters in first class and the sudden shock of winged horses
slamming through the thin metal walls as the Choosers swooped in...
"I had an unscheduled layover."