A/N: Chap 26 review responses are in my forums like normal. I'm glad folks enjoyed my Coil arc. Now for another warning about this chapter-it contains a powerful and violent vision of the past that some readers might find troubling. I have more notes at the end.
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Leave Not a Rough Hewn House
Coil's soul hung just beyond the mortal world, anchored firmly to her power just like her father's weapons chest was. It was a tightly bound ball of writhing hate and contempt for the life, trapped in a cycle of self-loathing. Taylor somehow knew that it was reliving those last few moments of its mortal existence, torturing itself with its death over and over again.
The curious thing was the energy she could feel pouring off it. It was a purely spiritual energy, but it felt...delicious. She tried not to think of the fact that she was somehow feeding off the pain of a tortured soul.
She couldn't help but dwell on her reaction to the death she caused this time, and the death of Shadow Stalker. That first death was a shock—it horrified her how easy it was. The fact that an innocent man later died as a result of her anger just made it worse.
This time, she killed a man intentionally. She arrived and in a split second she cast judgement and executed a human being, and seized the soul of another. Even if he was in the act of murder, it was still a sobering thought. More sobering, though, was that the man she killed had a soul so utterly twisted by his crimes that it dissolved into its own damnation the moment he died. What point was hell to a soul that would enjoy its tortures? That could be one of its demons?
But Coil? Even if that injured blonde pulled the trigger, Taylor knew he died because of her. It was a cold-blooded execution, and the consequence of that hovered within her reach on the other side of reality.
The PRT offered her the use of a shower to clean up, and given the blood that ruined her clothes and the fact that a crew of almost fifty Dockworkers were demolishing and replacing the walls of her home, she accepted the offer. She was just finishing when she heard the door of the small guest room open. "How are you doing in there?" Militia called.
Taylor turned the shower off. She looked down at the water beaded across her skin. Smiling despite everything that happened today, she asked the spirits of the water to leave her. It did so, evaporating quickly to leave her skin feeling cool and comfortably dry.
When she walked out of the bathroom awkwardly wrapped in a large white towel, she saw Miss Militia waiting in the small, hotel-like room. A stack of clothing sat on a desk near the door. Taylor stepped toward it and lifted the largest article. "What is this?"
Despite her mask, Taylor could tell that Militia was grinning just from her eyes. "Strapless, low-back bridal corset. When he was told you would be taking advantage of the PRT costume program, Armsmaster ran an algorithm and a coordinated internet search with Dragon and determined with 95% confidence that the Queen Anne's Secret bridal corset C-cup would be ideal with your wing structure."
Taylor could only stare. "Armsmaster and Dragon ran an algorithm on my boobs?"
The older cape snickered. "And your wings. And he didn't get why Battery and I were laughing at him. Not at all."
"How do I put it on?"
"Like a normal bra. Start with it backward to secure the straps, then just pull it up and around and adjust until it feels right."
Taylor took the clothes back into the bathroom. Underwear and slacks went first, then she worked on the corset. Flustered, she called, "Come help, please."
Militia came in, and together they figured out the unnecessarily complicated straps that were meant to complement a bridal gown, not provide support to a teenaged goddess still trying to accustom herself to her own body. When it was on, though, and she sent her wings to the Between to pull on the long-sleeved black, backless sweater, she had to admit it worked really well.
"Thank you," she said.
The cape nodded. "You've had a busy couple of days."
Taylor nodded, but didn't speak. The silence stretched out a little longer than normal as Militia seemed to be weighing something. Finally, she asked it. "I'm sorry, Taylor. For Winslow. For everything. I didn't know. I never meant to hurt you."
"I know. I can see the truth of you. I can see your frustration. You lost people you respected in the violence Coil engineered. It's okay."
The woman had learned to be very expressive with her eyes. "What does that mean? What does it mean to see someone's truth? Their soul. Is it reading their mind?"
Taylor shook her head. "I can't hear your thoughts. But I…" She let the blue flame flicker on her hand and very gently touched Militia on her forehead. Her power filled the woman's soul, just enough that Militia's breath caught in her throat. "Do you feel that?"
"Yes." Militia breathed the word.
"That's your soul. It's the spiritual energy of your potential in the world. Everything you are, could be, did and could do-it has a spiritual energy. I can see loves, traumas and major events."
She pulled her arm back and withdrew her power. Militia visibly shook from the withdrawal of it. Her dark eyes glistened. "When you look at me, what do you see?"
"I see a soldier of God," Taylor answered without hesitation. "A paladin. A crusader. Unlike the other heroes here, you've killed. You've never taken pleasure in the lives you've taken, and you hope never to take them again. But you understand the truth of war. I think that's why Dad liked you."
Militia snorted. "Your dad scared the hell out of me."
"Because you understood him in a way Armsmaster couldn't. You are a soldier of God; and he is the God of War. You reacted to him instinctively. If you were in Africa right now, you'd be at his side fighting with him. And he'd welcome you, because you are a worthy soul. Your power doesn't make you powerful, your will does."
With some hesitation, Militia lowered her American-flag themed bandana. Taylor noticed that although it looked like bandana on the outside, within it was actually a carefully crafted breathing mask. The face revealed was that of a woman of striking, classical Persian beauty, with pale, olive-toned skin with rich black hair and expressive brown eyes.
There was a vulnerability there; a brutal, fragile honesty in the woman's eyes. And a longing for something more. "My name is Hannah."
Faith. So soon after receiving the faith of the Waters family, Taylor was intensely aware of the small sliver of it she felt within this older woman. Faith, and also a desperate hope that her faith was not unwarranted.
"Hello, Hannah." Smiling so much her face felt stiff, she pulled the shorter, older cape into her embrace. "Thank you. I think I'd given up in Spain when you came. You saved my life. No matter what, I'll always remember that."
Hannah returned the embrace. "It was my pleasure."
Whatever she needed, Miss Militia seemed to find it in her hug. Her smile beamed as she found her footing again. "So, you're official. Contracts are signed, power testing is complete. What do you say about meeting the Wards?"
The transition startled Taylor. "What?"
"You're here. Tattletale is going to be in deposition for at least another day. And as an associate cape, you may end up working with them. I think it would be best for them to meet you here."
Taylor's confidence faltered a little. "What about Shadow Stalker?"
"They saw the video. They know what she was doing. It'll be okay."
"Might as well, then."
Militia pulled her mask back on and led Taylor out of the room, through a series of crowded hallways and up a long elevator ride, until they reached a floor lined with fake plants and generic pieces of framed art. On the only door on the right side of the room, she paused and entered a long security code, followed by her thumbprint. "There's a 90-second alarm to give everyone a chance to mask-up if they want. We're maintaining Wards facilities at the PRT Headquarters building in town for public tours, but we only do VIP tours of the rig."
The 90 seconds passed quickly and Militia opened the door and led the way in.
Taylor wasn't sure what she was expecting. What she saw, though, looked like the living room of a large house with a domed roof. Directly in front of the door was a large space framed by long, puffy couches facing a wall decorated with empty bookshelves and a massive flat-screen television that appeared to hold a video game of some kind. Everything looked brand new.
The space continued to her left into a broad mixed-use area of a fully functional kitchen and dining area, and a game space that held a skee ball and pool table. As they walked further in Taylor saw a corner of the mixed-use area dominated by a wall of communications and computer equipment with a pair of ergonomic office chairs pulled up to a bank of inset-monitors. She also saw several half-packed boxes-proof that they were moving.
"Those are the coolest wings I've ever seen," a young girl.
The Wards had assembled-not just Vista and presumably Kid Win, but also Clockblocker, Aegis and Gallant. Vista was the speaker, and also the most distinctive. Unlike the others who had various monochromatic costumes, hers was lime green and white, adding a splash of color and personality to the room. She wore a helmet with a visor that left the lower portion of her face open.
Taylor felt her feather's ruffle. "Thank you. You must be Vista."
The girl was there in a blue of folded space, shaking Taylor's hand. "I'm sorry you're not joining the Wards," Vista said. "But I understand why."
Most of them had a living power coiled around damaged souls. Just like Militia, Taylor could see their trigger events like giant bruises that their powers had latched onto like so many leeches. Despite their powers and their desire to do good, it left every one vulnerable in spirit. She hadn't paid attention back at power testing, but if she had she knew she'd see something similar.
Every cape is a broken soul.
"Are you okay?" The speaker must have been Gallant—an Empath, from what Taylor had read after she signed her contract. He wore futuristic tinker armor, but his actual power was as an empath an emotional manipulator.
Unlike the others, his power was dead. Just like Alexandria; just like Legend. Also, unlike his peers, he didn't have the bruise to his soul that came with a trigger event. She leaned forward, examining the power in a way she didn't feel appropriate to Alexandria.
"Ah…should I get Glory Girl?" another of the capes said. "Getting awfully close and personal there."
Taylor blinked her eyes back to focus on the physical, and realized she'd encroached into the cape's personal space. "Sorry, I was just…looking at your power."
"Miss M, when her bio says Trump 10, should we be worried?" It was the same boy who made the crack about Glory Girl. He wore a concealing white costume covered in stylistic clocks. His face was completely hidden behind a featureless mask.
"No, she can't affect powers," Miss Militia said, a shade too quickly. "I'm sure you all saw the Chief Director's news conference yesterday evening. Telos will be starting Arcadia this Monday. Washington's also approved her for HR and costume consultation services. Glenn Chambers flew in from New York to help with her costume. In fact, that's our next stop."
"Oh, shit." Clockblocker said, suitably distracted. "I'm sorry."
"Why?" Taylor asked.
"Glenn's an asshole," Vista said bluntly.
"Language," Aegis warned.
"No, the man's an asshole," Miss Militia said, to the mutual shock of the whole room. "However, he's also very, very good at his job. He's not paid to be liked. You may not realize it, but the Wards program receives no federal funding. The program is funded entirely by merchandizing. His work is what allows us to keep the program running nation-wide." She looked to Taylor. "He does independent consultations too, but he charges $1,000 an hour. Washington's footing your bill, though."
Clockblocker whistled. "Nice. Hey, Miss M, think I could get some free advice on some clothes to get a date?"
"Not even Glenn is that good, Clock," Aegis said. Of them all, he had the largest bruise in his soul.
It did not take a goddess to know that her path would likely not intersect with theirs very often. "Well, it was nice to meet you all," Taylor said.
"Bye!" Vista called. "It's nice having another girl hero on the scene. Try to save some bad guys for us, though."
"No promises," Taylor said.
~~Theogony~~
~~Theogony~~
Glenn Chambers reminded Taylor of a movie she and Emma watched on television one night. The movie was about ghosts and a horribly mean family that moved into their home, and their weird Goth daughter. One of the characters was an interior designer played by a man with a cool last name-Shadix. His first name was also Glenn, strangely enough.
Like Glenn Shadix's character in that movie, Glenn Chambers proved to be a short, mildly obese man with oddly styled hair that was not quite a mohawk, and not quite a mullet, but which combined the worst aspects of both. He wore a stained Hawaiian shirt over orange parachute pants that looked as if they were stolen from the set of an old MC Hammer video. He walked into the conference room with an oversized briefcase in one hand, and a Slurshee from a 6-12 Convenience Store in another.
"There's the girl of the hour," he said in greeting. He put his sugary abomination on the conference table, followed by his huge satchel. He sat down and began pulling out sketch pads. "So, first question. Mask or no mask. You've been publicly outed, but masks are…"
"No mask."
He stopped, mid-sentence. Instead of scoffing or questioning, he instead took a long, noisy pull from his drink. He finished, clasped his hands under his chin and looked at her intently. "Reasoning?"
"I need people to see me. You might say that people's faith strengthens me."
"You're not worried about collateral fallout from friends or family?"
"I'm not worried."
He pulled again on his frozen liquid sugar. "Your house?"
Taylor felt Coil's soul raging. "I'm not worried," she said again.
Another raised brow. "Okay. So, costumes. Since you're not a Ward, you have final say over everything. You can pick any one, or reject them all and go on your own. I'm here to advise, and if you find something you like, we'll get it made for you under the associate's grant you've been given."
He opened up one of the sketch pads. Taylor stared at the drawings. Some of them were shockingly risqué. One had her running around in a metal bikini top and a short skirt that didn't even cover her ass. "Really?" she said, looking up.
He smirked. "No. My intern begged me to let him draw up some sketches and show you, and his father's a senator. Now I can say I showed them to you." He pushed over a second. "I'm a government employee, Telos. That means politicians can and will make my life miserable at times. It's unavoidable."
The second sketch pad was much more conservative. Taylor admitted she wasn't interested in a short skirt because of her flying, but she couldn't help but come back to the "Wonder Woman" sketch. The skirt was longer-a Roman-style legionaries' kilt that hung to her knees with gold plates instead of leather, and matching golden shin-guards.
The chest plate had only a suggestion of her shape-enough to look feminine without the patently absurd Boob-plates from fantasy novels. It actually circled around her lower back, ran up her front and then looped around her neck, leaving her back and wings free. The head piece, though, was what caught her attention. He'd drawn a golden headpiece that framed her face and formed a band like a crown that would keep her hair from her eyes. Fragile-seeming strands, like vines, seemed to complement the runes that ran up the side of her neck.
The page opposite had inserts of various mask and helmet ideas. But the complete drawing had just the head piece, as if he'd known she would reject the mask. "What's it made of?"
"The metal is a tinker-tech alloy, not quite plastic, not quite metal, not quite ceramic, and tough enough that Alexandria uses it in her helmet during Endbringer battles. Notice the leggings? The whole ensemble will go over a body sleeve of superweave, another tinker-tech fabric reserved for the highest-tier brutes in the Protectorate."
"I appreciate that. Still, I was led to believe this would be a lot worse."
The man slammed the sketchpad closed. "Sounds like we have a winner, then. And in your case, Telos, there's not much for me to do. One, you're only an associate. I don't get to order you around like I do the Wards. And two? You're a beautiful, powerful girl with wings. It's easy to find a winning costume when you have a winning cape to wear it. Your merchandise will sell itself-I'll make sure to give you some contact information for licensing."
"Licensing?"
"Money makes the world go round. Mouse Protector is a good example of independent licensing. She averages almost ten million in licensing fees and endorsements every year. She has her own cereal brand and Saturday morning cartoon. Narwhal's licensing amounts to almost five percent of the Guild's annual budget—she'd be rich if she didn't give the money to her team. The rest comes from Dragon Technologies, Inc. Keep that in mind."
"I will, thank you."
"Good. We're done. I can go home. We have your measurements from Brookhaven and from that ridiculous 3-D model Armsmaster drew up, so your costume should be ready in a few days. Ta ta!"
And he left, sweeping out of the room just as he entered. She wondered if the Shlurpee he left behind was a metaphor or something. Her question was answered when he rushed back in a minute after the door closed. "Forgot my drink." Then he left again.
~~Theogony~~
~~Theogony~~
Rachel Minton did her shopping. Not just for school supplies, but also to replace all the appliances in the house. Lacy and Kurt were handling the things like kitchen and bath cabinets, faucets, since and hardware, but Rachel insisted on doing her school shopping.
If Taylor was a suspicious person, she might think the PRT wanted to minimize her public appearances.
She didn't mind. In the four days since she left for power testing, the men of the DWA had gutted the house, replaced all the plaster with drywall, completely updated the home's electrical wiring and fuse box, mudded, textured and painted the new walls, and even installed the new kitchen and bathroom cabinetry that Lacy picked out. They finished repairs to the floor before polishing and re-staining the wood. All for only twice what they initially estimated.
The house still had a powerful "new paint" smell that convinced her to leave all the newly replaced windows open, but otherwise the house was done. All it lacked was furniture. All the surviving echoes of her old life were hidden in a few boxes down in the basement.
It didn't feel like home. It wasn't just the absence of the familiar. No, it was more profound than that. The lingering scent of her mother was gone.
Even after a year following her death, her scent lingered. Taylor wasn't even sure, now, if it was a physical smell, a spiritual trace or some combination of both. But with the walls of the house ripped out, the old furniture destroyed and discarded, all trace of her mother's presence had been erased from the home.
"Mimir, are you there?"
For as long as you need me, Little Sister.
Taylor had no questions, she just found herself wanting to make sure she wasn't alone.
She stepped out onto the front porch. The fire pit was still warm from the last bit of broken wood they'd burned. Beyond the cramped yard, she saw the corner where mother had her small city garden. It was a witch's garden of spices and herbs rather than vegetables. Now the soil lay overgrown with weeds and a few black trash bags.
Just like the front, the birch trees that anchored her mother's protective magic were long dead, either collapsed or cut down for the wood. She drifted out into the yard, searching for any trace of her mother's magic.
From the Holshausen's yard, she heard a dog barking at her until she whispered for it to be quiet. It did so with a whine and a wag of its tail. On the other side, the Peterson's house was empty. The whole family was killed in gang violence during a family trip to Boston.
She brushed her hand against the Brisingamen, and at her will memories flooded into her mind. Ancient voices sang epics to her of the gods and the mortals who worshipped them.
Abruptly she found herself walking in a wood so dense with divine magic her skin shone from it. It was not a domain, but rather the entrance to one. A holy wood where mortals could mingle with their gods. As she walked among the trees, she saw headless bodies hanging all around her. Not just human, but every animal native to the land. The only commonality was that every sacrifice was male.
The blood and death saturated the land and the trees, empowering every single spirit such that Taylor could hear them singing and celebrating the sacrifices. Beyond the grove, she could hear deep voices chanting prayers and imprecations to the gods. She should have been horrified by the bodies around her. Men and animals were all beheaded and hung by their feet to bleed into the soil.
She should have been horrified, but the sheer density of the ancient, blood-soaked divinity within the grove left her feeling almost drunk with power.
Abruptly she found herself somewhere else. Another forest, ancient, primeval but almost untouched by human hands. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw her mother. She wore a deerskin wrap-around dress secured at her waist by a wide yellow sash. Her bare feet bore protective runes on them, similar to Taylor's but not as powerful.
Abenaki warriors dragged captives forward. Taylor saw a tattered red coat or two, but also the tribal markings of Mohawk warriors. Her mother turned and looked right at her, speaking through the ages to her.
"Colonists murdered two Abenaki hunters, and this is the consequence. My adopted tribe allied themselves with the French, and these English and their Mohawk allies attacked our village. They will die, but this way their death has meaning. Their sacrifice will empower the domain where you, my daughter, will one day be born."
One by one, the English colonists and their Mohawk allies were beheaded and hung by their feet in the trees. They travelled far to Newfoundland for the ritual, but with their goddess among them no other tribe would stand a chance.
With each man's crying death, Taylor watched as her mother gathered their souls, until she wielded the spiritual energy as one might a hammer. She lifted her hands, closed her eyes, and screamed out a WORD.
Taylor stumbled out of the vision. She once more stood in her back yard amidst dead trees, weeds and trash bags. "Mimir, I had a vision."
Oh? Tell me, Little Sister.
"A place called Uppsala."
Ah, yes. Well, let me ask you this. When you look at the mortals around you, what is it you see first? Their flesh, or their spirit?
"I don't understand."
To the gods of the north lands, Little Sister, mortal bodies were things of inconsequence. What was death to a god, when that mortal's soul would travel on either to Hel, Valhalla or Folksvangr? The Valkyries, Freya and Odin gained power from the souls of the dead. So then why not accept the sacrifices of their followers?
Taylor shuddered as the memory of the dense magic and divinity of the wood came back to her. It wasn't just the death that horrified her, it was how beautiful she thought it was in the vision.
Or how delicious Coil's soul felt to her.
"Am I a goddess of death?" The question hung in the air, too painful to be heard but impossible to call back.
No more than your mother, Little Sister, Mimir said. She was a goddess of magic and fertility, but was awarded half the souls of the worthy dead when she joined with Odin. That does not make her a goddess of death, only that she had power over it. Your power includes death, but that is not the sum of it unless you make it so.
She summoned the cold, twisted soul of Coil. Whatever civilian name he had was lost with his death-only the villain's shard of power and his hate remained. The spirit pulled against her; the touch of her Hel fire burned him, like real fire would a human. He could find no comfort in her embrace, nor would she offer it. It should have sickened her how much spiritual energy poured off his struggles, but the power of it felt too good.
"This is the soul of the man who tried to kill me. He created a web of lies to trap me into a fight with Ryujin, Dragon King of the Sea. I claimed his soul after I saved another from his hands."
She pulled his spirit to the stump of the dead birch. One soul alone would not be enough to sanctify a domain, not like her mother's or that ancient site in her vision. But she refused to kill anyone to establish a domain.
"What would happen if a tore apart an intact soul?"
I dunna know, Little Sister. That's one power none of your kin had. But I do know this. An intact soul has great power. Souls can only be broken from within—from harsh experience or harsh choices. To break a soul from without will release vast spiritual energy. It is not something to be handled lightly.
Cold blue fire blossomed from her other hand as she held the power-infested soul over the stump. "This man's life was one of contempt and hatred for the world. He wielded a dead power, just like Alexandria, and the shard of that power remains within his soul. There is no place for that type of anathema in the world. At least this way, something good will have come from him."
Stabbing her wings down into the soil for support, she began pulling at the soul and the power that draped around it. The difficulty of it shocked her; she could have ripped apart a tank far easier than splitting this one soul. Power unlike anything she could imagine poured out of it just from the pain she caused, but she needed more. She screamed and pulled with all her might.
The soul of Coil split asunder with an explosion of spiritual energy that ripped a completely different scream from her. Caught in the red maelstrom of a soul's imposed death, she placed her hands on the dead birch. The Brisingamen sang to her of a sacred word spoken by Bors, father of Odin, when he created Asgard. Of a word spoken by Zeus, father of Kratos, when he created Olympus. Of her mother when she created her domain. It was a Word of Creation from before creation itself.
Taylor spread her wings as she pulled the maelstrom of spiritual energy into her body. With all the spiritual energy Coil's soul released, she reared back her head and spoke the WORD. The sound of it boomed from her lips, feeling right and glorious and beautiful in her ears, mind and soul.
With that WORD and with the soul sacrifice of Coil to power it, Taylor's divine will flooded into the Birch tree that she touched. The tree exploded into new growth, coming back to life in a flurry of branches and foliage. Her power spread from that tree like a tidal wave across the sea. Grass shimmered back to life in an impossible shade of green. The birch trees to either side bloomed back to life as had the first.
Taylor's magic spread, encompassing the width of the back yard. Taylor watched in satisfaction as her magic carried the filth and debris from her yard. Still the magic spread, bringing the trees along the sides of the yard back to life. New trees stabbed up from the ground, strengthening the barriers that protected the home. Even as she stood watching, the backyard seemed to stretch and expand. New trees emerged—fruit trees and great oaks.
Rock burst from the soil to her left as she faced her house, rising up to three times the height of her home. Its side began to weep before the rock cracked open and a waterfall began to fall into a deep pool at its base. The pool drained into the hole that used to be the well. With all this power came a name; a realization. A purpose.
The purpose.
"I dedicate this domain to Telos," Taylor whispered.
The volume didn't matter, only the words. Because with the words came anchors for the magic to her divinity. Abruptly it ended; the deed was done.
Taylor sank down against the now verdant, living tree. Red leaves shimmered as if in the middle of the day, despite a brilliant night sky overhead free of the cloud cover that normally filled the city's skies.
She looked out over a brilliantly green lawn that was much larger than it was just moments ago. Fireflies lit the path to her home, now looking smaller in the distance. In the silence that followed, the true import of what she just did settled about her shoulders.
"I did it, Mimir," she said between gasps for air. "I sanctified my domain without killing anyone."
To Taylor's shock, the air shimmered as Mimir appeared to her as a glowing blue shade, so highly defined she could see his hooves and the Celtic spellwork on his chest. He leaned down and stared with shining crystalline eyes.
His mouth moved, but his voice still sounded the same in her head. Aye, Little Sister. You did. But know this. By using the power of a human soul to sanctify this domain, you have made it a spiritual place. This is now your Folksvangr, and all who die in your name that you find worthy may find respite here, until your own Ragnorok calls them to battle."
*There are at least two first-hand contemporary accounts of human sacrifice among the Norse. First is Adam of Bremen and his description of the Temple at Upsala in Sweden. Then, of course, there's the infamous description of a Volga Viking funeral by the Islamic traveler Ahmad ibn Fadlan which gave rise to Creighton's' Eaters of the Dead, which was turned into a movie called The Thirteenth Warrior (which omitted the scene entirely). Norse gods were not nice, and I chose not to gloss over that fact. Taylor, as a child of a Norse goddess, was a product of that history, but as a god of America she chose another path for her divinity.
**The use of the WORD of Creation is directly inspired by Shezza's classic Denarian trilogy. Of all the HP stories I've read, that trilogy has the single most bad-ass, awesome depiction of Dumbledore I've encountered. An old man who can go toe-to-toe with the Queen of Winter from the Dresden Files. That level of bad-ass.