Chapter 8: Part 2, chapter 2 ᛏᚹᛟ ᚨᚷᚨᛁᚾ
Summary:
Keo tries to return Matt's soul from the underworld.
Trygve and Birger have some quality time together.
Matt must face his past in order to secure his future.
Notes:
Happy New Year!
I've finished writing this story, now I just have to post it. I think you'll like where it heads.
I originally had some great curse-words in Laos in this chapter, but I don't think I got accurate translations, so I've left them out. I did, however, include selamat berkenalan, which means "nice to meet you."
Otherwise, I did some light research on Southeast Asian spirit workers, who, as it turns out, tend to be trans.
Enjoy!
Chapter Text
Modern day Milwaukee, Wisconsin
Keo knocked gently on the door to the modest home he stood in front of. He was in West Allis, driven there by his brother-in-law, Anou. He had tried to have a conversation with his sister about Matt, who had now been in a coma for almost a week now. But the moment he had let slip that Matt was dealing with an obsession with Jeffrey Dahmer, she had shut him down.
Which was about as much as he expected.
Fortunately, as she was not often one for such expletive-ridden outbursts, he had gotten Anou on the line, who had listened and responded calmly.
Now he stood in front of the house of a nat kadaw, the only professional of a metaphysical nature he could locate within the borders of Milwaukee.
Keo was not typically one for such practices. Although Malay pawang and Vietnamese hầu đồng leaders were abundant in the parent country, due to its proximity to them, he had never had the cause or reason to resort to calling upon them. The traditions of Daoism, the bissu of Sulawesi, and still others within the Thai and Hmong cultures—he knew that Southeast Asia was rife with those who communed with the worlds of the dead and other such spirits, but believing in them was different.
But now his beloved was in grave danger. He knew it in his bones. He would give anything—blood, sweat, tears, money—to see him smile again. That was why, against his beliefs, against his better judgment, he knocked at the door of a shaman.
Across the threshold stepped a small individual whose gender at first Keo could not name, not even guess. Their hands were broad and knuckles slightly hairy, but their face was adorned with lovely blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick. Upon their head sat a headdress of matching blue and pink artificial flowers. They smiled broadly and bowed.
“Selamat berkenalan,” the person greeted, “please, come inside.”
Over the next hour, Keo got to know Eira very well. She was in reality a transgender woman, as were many mediums who were taking up the profession. To be a “wife” of the spirits was one of the few ways in modern society that a transgender woman or gay man could make a living, it turned out. She set Keo at ease almost immediately, as being a gay man from that corner of the world had unfortunately given him much the same treatment. He then explained how his boyfriend had overdosed and now appeared to be dwelling in limbo between the worlds of the dead and the living. He asked Eira if he would need to provide payment, saying that he had only brought along fifty dollars, and she waved his hand away from her, insisting that “this one was on the house.” He returned to the car with Anou with a renewed sense of optimism.
“Just so you know,” Anou said, “we’re not telling Lai at all about this. She’s not even sure if she’ll forgive you.”
Sighing, Keo only nodded. “I didn’t keep this from her deliberately, nor you. It was just a lot to handle. But he’s—” His voice shook. “He’s my love. If I didn’t do this, I would never forgive myself.”
Soundlessly, Anou nodded as he backed out of the driveway and pulled off.
Staring morosely out the window as it started to rain, Keo made a silent vow.
I’ll find you, Matt. I’ll bring you home.
Outside a monastery on the outskirts of London, England, year 990 BCE
Trygve quite liked the new Birger. He was still a killer, and still reticent in most social graces, but he was definitely less burdened and more a real, complete human being. Currently, he was almost giggling as he recounted the two of them being caught in the process of lovemaking by the Christians.
“What are we going to do now?” Trygve then asked.
“We need to go back to port,” explained Birger, “and ask the ship that saved us to take us further.”
Neither were sure that the ship would still be moored at port, but to their pleasant surprise, it was. Moreover, the captain remembered them.
Trygve, with a much better grasp at the Anglo tongue, translated between Birger and the captain of the Anglo ship. They were, indeed, headed up to Dublin, they just needed to do some restocking and re-manning. The captain was astonished not only that Trygve was up and walking around after such a traumatic ordeal, but that Birger and his former crew had been able to row from Hedeby to almost London in a matter of less than a week. The captain lamented that he hadn’t seen any of the former crew and he presumed them drowned. Briger, after subsequent translation, pealed out a belly laugh that seemed to horrify him.
Birger’s face suddenly grew somber, and he motioned for Trygve to translate yet again. He leaned in close to his ear as if to disclose a secret.
“Ask him if he or his crew came across a black wolf’s pelt.”
And so Trygve did. It was then the captain’s turn to laugh.
“I barely noticed you two in those seas, chap. I’m sorry, but we didn’t feel up to wasting time on an old mangy dog.”
Trygve hesitantly translated, leaving out the insults, yet somehow through the man’s tone, Birger could tell he was being mocked, and stared stonily and unblinking at him. He did not act on his anger, which was good, but for the remainder of the afternoon, he relapsed back to his former self. Trygve knew better to pry, but nonetheless was curious.
Later, Birger tromped into a tavern and declared that he and “my friend” needed food, and that they had no money. Not one to waste charity, especially on such an intimidating guest, the tavern owner supplied them eat some stew, bread, and ale, as well as a bed for the night. The two of them ate mostly in silence, until, peering down his empty stein as if wishing it could magically refill itself, Birger finally spoke up.
“The wolf,” he muttered, “was my only companion during a treacherous trip by foot, long, long ago. It was winter, and I was all alone…”
Peering off into the distance as if he could feel the lick and burn of the frosted winds, Birger then regaled Trygve with yet another story.
“The blacksmith had me walk a long, arduous distance, from his hometown to the mountain where I was initiated into berserkergang—”
“You’ve never told me that story,” Trygve interrupted.
“Hmm… Then perhaps I will, at a later date. But as to this journey, it was another test of my strength. The mountain would be a walk of eight days, that is if one could make out the dagmarks and if the weather was on a traveler’s side. For both of these, luck was lost. The trip instead took me twice as long. I was short of food, short of rest. There was little wood to burn. The wolf helped me hunt, kept me warm, and kept me safe.
“My friend gave his life for me. He was young and foolish, and when cornered by a wolf twice his size, did not back down. With the sunrise, I cradled his lifeless body, cold and limp, in my arms doused by his blood, towards Hofsjökull at hádegi…”
Birger was again awash with tears.
“To honor his sacrifice, the blacksmith skinned his body, and fashioned his pelt into what was to be my first, and only, Ulfheðinn.”
Trygve snapped out of his disquiet and calmly placed his palm over the back of Birger’s hand. Birger broke from his reverie and looked down at him slowly, misty-eyed.
“The wolf was your first companion,” Trygve whispered, “now… you have me.”
They left the plates and cups of their meal behind them upon the wooden table and ventured upstairs. Once the door of their domicile was shut firmly behind them, Birger lifted Trygve off the floor and kissed him ravenously. His teeth seemed to match the ferocity of his former friend, and it made Trygve both hard and dizzy. He was then tossed onto the bed, while Birger disrobed. In one large hand, he stroked his cock, while extending another to Trygve. Trygve grinned and took it, drawing Birger closer to another, less fervent kiss. Birger moaned with both his throat and chest and bucked his hips against Trygve’s stomach. Trygve then removed his own clothes, and they rutted their cocks together.
Lips parted and swollen from kissing, Birger took Trygve’s delicate little ass in both of his hands and tugged him downward. Rubbing his palms lasciviously up and down Birger’s abs and caressing the “v” of his hips, Trygve tossed his head back and gasped as he felt the head of Birger’s cock enter him. Birger wasted no time in invading Trygve’s tight little hole, pushing with all his might upward as Trygve wrapped his legs around his hips and trembled in delight.
“I never want this to end,” Trygve soughed into Birger’s chest, his ear pressed against his heartbeat. “I love you.”
To this, Birger only chuckled and kept thrusting. He treated his cock like a spear and thrusted endlessly and violently, Trygve’s inner walls trembling and pulsating as he both struggled to accommodate him and writhed with pleasure. He moved his head to the side and let his tongue slip out and lap at Birger’s nipple, causing him to growl.
“That wasn’t asked for, pup,” he chastised not without merriment, “you will do as you’re told.”
Undaunted, Trygve quipped, “And if I refuse?”
Birger drew his length out, eliciting a cry of disappointment. But then he barked for Trygve to kneel and put his ass into the air. With a swift, hard backhand, Birger slapped his ass, causing a ring in the air and a jiggle of its roundness. He did it again, even harder, and Trygve bit into the sheets to suppress his shout. Birger slapped his ass raw, and then, once more, impaled it.
“I love you,” Trygve once again whispered. To this, Birger hovered his massive torso over him, and chomped down heartily onto the crux of his neck and shoulder. Trygve, taken unaware, allowed himself one shrill cry out into the inky blackness of the bedroom, before Birger stuffed three large fingers into his mouth to silence him.
Birger pumped his cock harder, and for the next several minutes, the only sound was the slapping of his balls and his mighty groans and grunts. Birger then felt his ass clench, his pelvic floor muscles push downward, and then emptied every last drop of his virile seed into the quivering little body below him. With a long, contented sigh, he withdrew his blade and took the youth into his arms.
Panting against Birger’s chest, Trygve felt that all the possible goodness and sacredness of the world belonged to the man who held him.
Kissing into Trygve’s hair and across his brows, Birger finally allowed himself the hope that he may live to be whole.
Niflheim
Within the eerie, green glass halls of the castle on the hill, so much like Oz if it had been made of absinthe, Baldr guided Matt patiently and peacefully. Matt, however, felt a growing terror the nearer they ventured inward. He had never believed in a heaven or a hell, but now he found himself faced with the truth of it. He feared for his mortal soul, yet even still, a deeper part of him vowed to endure any hardship to return to Keo.
At last, they reached the throne room of the mighty hall of Éljúðnir.
Upon the throne, there she was. She sat looking rather lost and small, thin and joyless, a veil over her face and head. Within it, Matt could see her face was split: one half bore the pale, beautiful countenance of a young woman, and the other half was that of a corpse. The corpse was neither bloody nor bare bone, yet seemed almost blue, frozen, embalmed by both the sadness and frigidness of her abode.
“Baldr, son of Óðinn,” she greeted, her voice as haunted as the room they stood in. “What brings you to my palace unannounced?”
“Hela, daughter of Loki,” Baldr returned the formal greeting, “I bring you this young fellow, who wishes to return to Miðgarðr above.”
Hela lifted her black veil and tilted her head, peering at Matt. Replacing his fear was a feeling of empathy and woe. She wasn’t old—she looked like the earthly mortal equivalent of a woman barely out of her teens—and yet her soul felt dark and lonely, emanating from her one blue eye. She brushed a lock of dirty-blond hair from her forehead and closed the distance between them, the train of her blueish-blackish dress slithering behind her. With her still-fleshed hand, she gently caressed his cheek, and he flinched slightly from its coldness.
“You have not yet crossed into my care,” she declared with a small, rueful smile. “Your heart still beats above. There is time yet, to return you.”
Matt then blurted out, “So, I’m, like, in a coma? Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it. Fight whoever I need to fight, whatever.”
Resuming her seat upon her throne, Hela shook her head. “Battles are not always about feats of strength. Sometimes, they are about forgiveness.”
Hela then held up her skeletal hand, gesturing to someone out of sight.
As if on cue, a female form then stepped out of the shadows.
It was Matt’s sister.
