Chapter 13 Trust
TRUST
Istare at Baldur in the empty mirror-stone hall, and he watches me.
Though I can’t feel anything from him through our Bloodbond, since he’s shut me out so completely right now, I can read the guilt and defiance written all over his face.
He sits before me on his chaise, unrepentant.
Slowly, I draw in a deep breath and let it out, steadying myself for the tough conversation we’re about to have.
Then diving right in.
“So. You’re addicted to using magic.” It’s not a question, as I stare him down hard. I’m not giving an inch, as I flare my magic in a real dominance-challenge all around us now, daring him to defy me.
“Runic binding magic, yes. Not lesser magic.” Baldur doesn’t lie to me, though I see that defiant heat flare again in his eyes, vicious, as he wrangles his power down as much as he can now.
To not flare and fight me.
“Tell me more,” I say firmly, willing myself to keep my posture open and not cross my arms, even though my magic’s blazing—because I need him to open up to me, rather than shut this conversation down right now.
I watch as that furious heat flares in his eyes again, however, before he closes them. With a serious will, Baldur draws a deep breath, mastering himself, as I feel him haul all his rageful dragon’s fury back.
It’s here now, however, and it’s here to stay; even as I feel how his inner darkness wants to lash out at me, I see the Black Dragon’s curses upon Baldur’s flesh eat into him just a fraction of an inch more.
Because his undealt-with inner darkness is driving those curses upon him. And the curses are destabilizing his ability to keep his darkness contained.
Leaving us in a dangerous place, as we fight now to figure this out.
“Talk to me, Baldur. It’s life-and-death we’re all facing if we can’t help you get your inner darkness and these curses under control. You know it is,” I say with as much empathy as I can right now, as something deep inside me both snarls and keens for my Fourth Drake.
I reach out, then take Baldur’s hand on the coverlet and squeeze it hard. It makes him startle that I’ve bridged this distance between us and made contact; his long eyelashes flicker as his blue eyes meet mine.
They’re blue, then they’re red, then blue again, however, as he fights hard against his darkest nature, resurging like a leviathan of the cosmos inside him. All thanks to his addiction, an ancient problem all around the world.
A demon to those who have it—every day.
As he sighs hard, Baldur gathers himself, then speaks.
“I’ve been addicted to using higher runic binding magic ever since I was a youngling,” he says, as he meets my gaze squarely this time.
As his eyes finally settle into blue, I know I’m getting the truth, though he doesn’t take his inner wall down yet and allow me to feel his emotions through our bond.
“Can you tell me what that means?” I ask as we sit together on the chaise, and I keep hold of his hand. I let my magics settle all around us, no longer challenging him but listening now, as we sit together.
“It means that ever since I figured out how powerful a sigilwright I was, I sought the most difficult runic binding spells—the trickier, the better.” He laughs, wry as that devilish red sparks in his eyes again. “And they fucked me.”
“Fucked you, how?” I listen, giving him everything of my attention.
Though I leave my bond with Bjorn wide open, so the rest of our Bloodbond can get Baldur’s full tale as he speaks.
“Runic binding magic is a tricky art, not a science, Rikyava.” Baldur is sad now as he regards me, woe in his eyes, along with regret.
“When I was a youngling in my first hundred years, I experimented with it too much—with detrimental effect. My sister Hekla tried to teach me everything she knew about caution, control, and care with it. But I was a hothead; I had a chip on my shoulder to prove myself in our family’s ancient arts, and I was driven by a sensation deep inside me I couldn’t possibly name.
It was a sensation of satisfaction that swept me whenever I performed the most challenging runic binding arts; of being fulfilled, beyond what anything else could ever give me, even the finest wines and the hottest sex.
It was a feeling that when I bound something, or someone…
I became a god. A god like the ancients out in their endless Void. Creating as gods do.”
“Or destroying.” I understand, as I watch him carefully now. As Baldur shuts his eyes again, sighing sharply, I know I’m spot-on.
“There came a time in my hundred and eighth year,” he keeps his eyes closed, hiding his beautiful self from me, “that I experimented with some of the trickiest sigil-bindings I had ever come across. Writings ten thousand years old, they were vague, and I was rash in trying to replicate them. When I at last implemented my year-long study of what I needed to do, I leveled six villages in my attempt.”
“Leveled?!” I blink at him, astonished.
“Leveled.” His eyes open, and they’re a snarling crimson red rather than blue now, terrible. “Every dragon, leaf, and beast. Not a single thing in the area was left alive, after my attempt at that runic binding spell, other than me. Do you understand?”
“You created a mass murder event with your attempt to complete that magic, though you didn’t mean to.
So your clan banished you.” I’m shocked, as something astounded roils all through me.
Though I suddenly understand why Baldur’s been a hermit, living out in the wilds for so very long.
“That’s why you went to live way out in the middle of nowhere.
So that your experimentation with runic sigil-binding couldn’t hurt anyone after that, ever again. ”
“It was self-imposed.” Baldur’s eyes gradually change back to blue, but a terrible midnight blue, dark. “My clan gave me the option of death for what I had done. To our people, banishment is the worse punishment, however. So I chose that. Knowing what I had done was unforgivable.”
“And you’ve been punishing yourself for that event ever since. Living alone like a wild hermit, not because you truly enjoy it, or need it to create your sigil-art… but because you felt you deserved it.”
“I do deserve it,” Baldur says flatly now as he stares at me, his eyes flashing red again.
“I’m a monster, Rikyava. Only Hekla still believed in me after that, thank all the gods she wasn’t nearby when it happened.
Only she came to me in my isolation and told me stories of her visions—that I would one day meet the drakaina of my dreams, and that together, we would do good work, saving the world from destruction.
I despaired for a long time… until I began to believe.
Only once I believed that I could rise above what I had done, did I finally have faith and heal.
It was then that I focused on only runic sigil-spells that could do good in the world, healing others and creating works of beauty. Rather than destruction.”
“Now you’re faced with needing to create for us something that could be ultimately destructive, however. And it’s driving your addiction to the forefront… making you feel wild again, reckless. Tempted to play god with your power, again.”
“Yes.” Baldur sighs as his smile becomes terrible.
“And with the Black Dragon’s curses devouring me, I’m having trouble fighting it, this vast darkness inside me.
Because it’s all twisted up together—the desire to do terrible things with my power, the fury I have against myself and what I’ve done… and the need to do more.”
“And in these scrolls, Hedda’s given you the key to doing far more.” I know as I watch him, intense. “Things that could destroy the entire world, just like she tried to do. Being a god in truth, as you make or break worlds to your desires. Completely.”
“I don’t know if I dare look at these scrolls further, though I want to.
Oh, how I want to…” Baldur is quiet now as he shudders, watching me with feverish eyes snapping from blue to red, then back again.
“I put dark sigil-magic like this aside eight hundred years ago when I finally found my faith; that I would do good in the world and meet the drakaina of my dreams who would make it so. Now, having these curses eat at me, however, feeling the Black Dragon’s influence in my very soul…
I’m tempted again to lose my inner faith and dive into my own deepest darkness and never come out.
And do whatever I want with my runic sigil-work. Never coming back to the light.”
As I hear Baldur’s confession, holding his hand on the chaise, he at last allows me to feel the barest fraction of what he’s processing right now.
He opens the tiniest doorway between us, letting his emotions touch me through our Bloodbond, and I feel how he twists in his darkest rage, his loss of faith, and his inner self-hate, relentless.
Just a fraction of all those emotions comes to me now, but they flood me in a tirade, twisting me up into the smallest, most terrible knot, just like what Baldur feels, deep inside.
Dark and wretched, it’s the most caustic woe that devours my Fourth Drake, just like the Black Dragon’s curses that scrawl throughout his flesh.
Because he hates himself for what he did, and how it hurt so many people—and what he’s still capable of. He hates himself for how he likes it, how he desires it, and how he wants it more than anything; more than sex, breath, or even life itself.
Because he wants to be a god, deep inside his powerful flesh. And he could do it, especially after a thousand years of runic sigil-binding study and focus in the Void.
To kill like a god—and never look back.