When they pulled you from me—the shocked midwives—a wet thing, a tangle of too many limbs, like the cherubim of the God of Abraham, as if I had birthed the child of that alien God; it was only when they let you unfold from the slimy sac, wiped you clean, and we saw what you were, that I understood fully what had happened. Why I had grown so very large: awkward, discomforted and discomfited for nearly a year; who the father must be.
I am a God. I am not chaste. I am beautiful. Can be beautiful. If you like. Not as Baldr is beautiful, of course, but pleasing. Enticing. Because I can be whatever my target wants. I can be monstrous too, if they desire.
(Oh, my Sigyn, such nights we had. When I would come to you as strongest male, as softest female with such tender hands you said, and as neither, slipping between the sexes to encircle you, consume you, be taken in by you in an endless circle of sweetest, purest bliss.)
There were children come of my loins before. We Gods are careless creatures. But never had I been the one fecund with the result. Perhaps I will not be so careless again, now that I have been the one to live with the consequences.
There were other ways to distract a stallion, but alas, as is the story of my life, at the time it seemed as if it would be…entertaining. And at the time, oh, at the time, it was divinely entertaining. I am a God. Anything I do is divine.
(I have been female before. It is exquisite to be hungry in that way, different, eager to be filled. Not to enter, but to be the one who welcomes in. Ripe. And if one has to choose one’s bed mate…well, I do like the finest things. The finest of stallions for the finest mare.)
Cold morning always comes, does it not? The heat between my legs faded. The Allfather was appeased (again). The apology accepted. It was not the first time that I have been the black sheep (or the black horse as the case may be). It will not be the last time that one of my impromptu solutions to a problem (that I created) will cost me.
I went on my wicked way. It was just one more night of desire, I thought, until I began to lose my lovely figure. Until I had no choice but to change my form to something large, to hold something large. I did wonder who the father was. As I said, I was not chaste in any form.
(I ask you, is it fitting for a trickster, THE Trickster, to be hoisted with his own petard? To be made sport of by fickle fate? Eh, did I play a trick on her once? Probably. I shall have to send her flowers. Or souls.)
I am fond of you, you know, my eight-legged offspring. What a wonder it is to be a God—fertility is like a game of dice. You never know what you will get. Although, you do resemble your father. Perhaps we should say you have nine legs, as your father had five. Is that lewd to say of one’s own child? A God, remember? I do what I want. But we have nothing on the Gods of Olympus. Incest is almost a required rite of passage for them.
I do wish that you were brighter. Your father was not well-endowed in that area--no offense. I wasn’t interested in his brain. For all your speed and skill, you really are just a horse with eight legs. I cannot quite bring myself to ride you. That would be…odd. Odin admires you—as a horse. Would you like that? Would you like to carry the Allfather into battle? Of course, you would; you love to run and charge and leap. You were born to be noble and good. Have an apple. Not a golden apple, of course. Idunn holds those tightly to her breast.
Soon I shall let Odin rein you and you will become his, no longer mine.
(Why does Idunn’s name catch in my mind so? My head throbs from it. And Baldr’s name too gives me pain. I suppose I shall know in time. I am a God. I do what I want.)