Frank was something new.
She did her best to hold her wrist in such a way as to keep the sharp bursts of pain to a minimum. St. Martin’s magic had snatched her around the waist as well, and she was sure she had some sort of internal damage, and perhaps a broken rib or two.
He still breathed. Barely, but she had not yet opened his path to his chosen Land of the Dead.
She’d broken his leg in three places, and lacerated multiple internal organs. Several of her hits had been hard enough to cause skull fractures.
He had chosen of his own free will to be the avatar of a dark magic she had no choice but to contain. Not just for her friend’s safety, or the safety of her town. She had taken those hits for the world.
She would again. And again. If needed she would die trying to contain this magic, as her god aspect had so many times before.
The blizzard roared beyond the illusion of Frank’s sacred World Tree space, but the flutter of wings momentarily rose above the din. The air distorted as if the fluttering beats modeled the cold like clay, and the smaller of Lennart’s ravens appeared directly over St. Martin’s unconscious body. The bird flapped her darkly iridescent feathers and landed gently on Dagrun’s thigh.
“I’d pet you,” she said, “but that hand is damaged, and twisting would not be comfortable.”
The raven clucked and honked. It moved closer to her face in an attempt to read her expression, then hopped off her leg to gaze at St. Martin.
The bird looked over her shoulder as if asking why he still lived.
Dag shrugged, which she should not have done, but she held the wince so as not to show the bird her pain. “He is a mundane. We have laws.”
Now the bird shrugged.
“He’ll be dead soon enough,” Dag said.
More flutters, and the second raven appeared. It hopped onto her shoulder instead of her thigh, and picked at the altar.
“You shouldn’t do that,” she said.
The bigger raven rubbed its head against her hair.
“I apologize for not visiting you more,” she said to the birds. “You were making friends with Lennart.”
The two birds honked. Dagrun closed her eyes. Without Frank, the blizzard’s deep freeze inched ever closer, and a chill crept into her bones.
The flutters happened again.
The woman now squatting on the other side of St. Martin wore black jeans and thick leather boots. Her white t-shirt all but gleamed under the golden light of Frank’s magical bubble, and her leather biker jacket looked both well-worn yet new and shiny.
She adjusted the black knit cap she wore over her two long, low braids.
The World Raven ran her finger across the illusionary floor next to St. Martin’s shoulder. She peered at her fingertip, frowned, then wiped her hand on his chest. “Dagrun, daughter of Tyr,” she said, as she examined her fingertip again. “Living life to the fullest, I see.” Another wipe, and she seemed satisfied.
“Always,” Dag responded. Tricksters were not evil per se; they were, though, demanding in their expectations of their targets, and Dag had best be careful with her choice of words.
Raven leaned over St. Martin. “Did he honestly think he was dealing with a genie?”
“Evidence points to yes,” Dag said. The idiotic fool.
Raven poked his shoulder. “You are one dumbass moron, you know that?”
St. Martin groaned.
Raven nodded toward Dag. “Your ex is a bag of dicks, by the way.”
Dag would have shrugged again but her long-ex Niklas der Nord wasn’t worth the pain. “On this we agree.”
Raven stood and her jacket rustled in much the same way as the birds’ feathers. “I can curse Nikky-boy, if you’d like. Something fun, like permanent jock itch. I’d do it for free just for the entertainment value.”
Dagrun laugh-coughed. “He’s been exiled.” So no matter how tempting Raven’s offer, he would no longer be a thorn in Alfheim’s side.
Raven kicked at some illusionary leaf litter. “Your friend,” she looked back toward Dag, “Axlam, correct? Now there’s some strong magic.” She pointed to accent her assertion. “Her soul cries out against her isolation.”
Dag leaned against the altar again, and didn’t respond. What should she say? The universality of Axlam’s pain could never be touched through its individual armor, so Dag offered what she could—her magic at runs, and her support as a friend.
Raven did not seem to agree. “That’s what happens when your roots are torn out and then hacked to pieces by some random colonizer.”
One should never argue with a trickster, especially a trickster stating the obvious. “You speak truth, Raven.” But that’s what war did, and elven magic could only do so much in response.
The two birds clucked and hopped to St. Martin to take over Raven’s carrion picking duties. She watched them rub beaks and coo at each other, then rubbed her own nose. “Do you know why I am here, Empress Dagrun?”
She was not Empress. That title was held by her stepmother. Dag had her own role in this universe.
A new, menacing grin slowly appeared on Raven’s lips. “Perhaps Frank should have named his dog after you instead of that long-dead Roman guy.” Her words held a bit of whimsy, and for a second, Dag wondered if some part of Raven had known the real Marcus Aurelius.
“You are a feathered bundle of contradictions, World Raven,” Dag said.
The grin turned to a smile, which quickly vanished. “Others heeded Frank’s call.” She looked around. “That isolation we spoke of has consequences.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “But mostly, I enjoy interfering more than the other spirits. Ah!” She pointed at the pews and snapped her fingers.
Two photographic plates appeared in her hands. She quickly unsleeved one, looked at it, then pushed it back into its sleeve. She did the same for the second. “Well, look at that.”
Dag did not dare ask. Showing interest only egged on a trickster and gave them the
