Meeting the goddess freya
The thing is, the walk back to Yasaka's shrine felt longer tonight that we can do in the real shame of what can happen to me. In that way, the wholeness of life can shake on the chance of living. That is to say that after the rooftop conversation with Riasher hand burning against his chest, her words dripping with challenge and barely-leashed hunger Basil's body still carried the echo of it all that he went through. Nero's void trying to swallow him the most powerful way, the portion of Logos flaring like a second sun that we cannot see, Rias's Power of Destruction crackling against his skin like she wanted to consume him and fuck him at the same time to show up in superiority and at the same time.
He didn't head straight to the torii gate.
Something pulled him toward the quieter part of Kyoto that we cannot tell if it is or not, well an old temple district where the lanterns burned low and the air smelled of incense and forgotten prayers. That is to say that nothing can change the huge impact of life and death. That is to say that no one can see the way we can be. The streets were nearly empty. Only the sound of his footsteps and the distant hum of the city.
Then she appeared.
Not with dramatic entrance. Not with wings or thunder. She simply stepped out from behind a stone lantern as if she had been waiting there since the world began to crack in silence before her beauty.
Freya.
In the flesh, in this reality, she was devastating in the most dangerous way possible. A succulent perfectly shaped goddess to perfection in passion, beauty, and love with Y breast cups and lovely curves.
She wasn't some delicate flower goddess that we can kill. She was beauty sharpened into a weapon. Tall and commanding easily six feet without heels with a body that moved like liquid desire given form that could make you easily drunk. Long, flowing silver hair cascaded down her back like moonlight poured over silk that we want to defeat, catching every faint lantern glow and turning it into something hypnotic that we have in the most shaking way.
On one level, we all know this stuff already. It's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily. Her skin was pale and flawless, almost luminous, like fresh snow kissed by starlight, yet warm enough to make you ache just looking at it in the most enchanting way
Her eyes were the real trap that silver-gray with a violet undertone that shifted depending on how the light hit them in the most possible way, deep and knowing, the kind of eyes that could see every filthy secret you carried and still make you want to confess more in which we can actually do for the greatness of life. Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time. Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, the only fact we have.
But she was different. Full lips curved in a smile that was equal parts invitation and predation. Her figure was pure sin sculpted by divine hands: full, heavy breasts straining against the deep crimson fabric of her dress that I would love to touch, narrow waist flaring into wide, fertile hips and thick, powerful thighs that promised both crushing strength and endless pleasure. The dress itself clung to every curve low-cut at the front to show the generous swell of cleavage, slit high on one side to reveal smooth, toned leg with every step. Maybe, she was here for something important
She wore golden ornaments in her hair and around her neck subtle, elegant, but screaming ancient power. A faint aura of seiðr magic clung to her like perfume love, war, fertility, and raw, unfiltered lust all woven together.
She stopped a few paces away. Tilted her head. That predatory smile deepened.
Freya: Well… look what the night dragged in. That is to say that I felt you from across the city, little logos-child. Your scent cuts through everything tories you read when you're the right age never quite leave you. You may forget who wrote them or what the story was called.
Sometimes you'll forget precisely what happened, but if a story touches you it will stay with you, haunting the places in your mind that you rarely ever visit, sorrow soaked in foxfire, grief sharpened by death's kiss, and now something new… the taste of void that tried to swallow you and failed. You carry quite the bouquet tonight. That is to say that I need you for something.
Her voice was velvet and honey poured over steel smooth, seductive, yet carrying the weight of battlefields and bedrooms alike that no one could ever come to imagine.
Basil stopped. Yin-Yang eyes spun once, slow and assessing, drinking in every dangerous curve, every shift of silver hair, every flicker in those silver-violet eyes.
Basil: Hahaha… Freya. That is to say that you don't exactly sneak up on a man. We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. as we were. as we are no longer. as we will one day not be at all. That is to say that you can comprehend why it can get shaped this way.
That is to say that you barely know what can work. The thing is, no one could ever come to understand. You look like love decided to grow tits, hips, and a smile that could start wars and end them in the same night. Norse goddess of beauty, fertility, and fucking everything that moves. What does the Lady of the Vanir want with a broken boy who just bound darkness to meaning on a high-school track field? This love can be shaken.
Freya laughed, low, throaty, the sound sliding down his spine like warm oil.
Freya: Straight to the point. I like that. Most men stammer or drool when they see me. You… you look at me like you've already fucked worse and lived to brag about it. Probably most of us agree that these are dark times, and stupid ones, but do we need fiction that does nothing but dramatize how dark and stupid everything is? In dark times, the definition of good art would seem to be art that locates and applies CPR to those elements of what's human and magical that still live and glow despite the times' darkness.That is to say that I felt the ripple when you used your precious Logos on that void-born thing. Nero, was it? Cosmos Z-rank angel-demon.
You didn't erase him. You married his nothing to your something. That kind of power… it sings to me. It makes my blood run hot. It makes me wonder what else that Logos of yours can bind… or unbind… when pointed in the right direction.
She stepped closer to see him and his splendour. Close enough that the heat of her body brushed his. One hand rose elegant fingers with golden nails and traced the edge of his torn shirt, right over the still-glowing black star-sun that we cannot get to see.
Freya: Tell me, Basil Pi… when you pressed that rational principle into Nero's chest and forced absence to admit it wanted presence… did it make you hard? Did the act of turning nothing into something that moans feel as good as sliding into Hel's frost-rot or Yasaka's jealous cunt? Because I can feel the hunger rolling off you in waves. We enter a spiritual puberty where we snap to the fact that the great transcendent horror is loneliness, excluded encagement in the self. Once we've hit this age, we will now give or take anything, wear any mask, to fit, be part-of, not be Alone, we young. Grief. Lust. Rage. All tangled together like lovers who refuse to let go. I want to taste it. I want to see if your broken desire is strong enough to match mine.
Her fingers slipped inside the torn fabric, palm pressing flat against the symbol. It flared brighter under her touch red-blue light meeting her silver aura in crackling sparks.
Freya: Or are you going to keep running back to your fox-queen every night, letting her tails wrap around you while you pretend the emptiness inside isn't still screaming? Because I, Freya, can give you something Yasaka and Hel never could. I can give you war and love in the same breath. At one magical instant in your early childhood, the page of a book—that string of confused, alien ciphers—shivered into meaning. Words spoke to you, gave up their secrets; at that moment, whole universes opened. You became, irrevocably, a reader. I can ride you until your sorrow learns how to sing instead of scream. But only if you're brave enough to let me. I know why we try to keep the dead alive: we try to keep them alive in order to keep them with us. I also know that if we are to live ourselves there comes a point at which we must relinquish the dead, let them go, keep them dead.
She leaned in. Lips hovering barely an inch from his. Breath warm and scented with honey and battlefield smoke.
Freya: So… what will it be, logos-child? Will you bind me next? Or are you still too busy running from the portal that took your mother? I mean, I am ready for everything.
The night held its breath.
Freya's silver-violet eyes burned into his.
And somewhere in the distance, Yasaka's nine tails were already twitching with jealous anticipation.
O my sorrow so big it finally caught the eye of the goddess who collects desire like war trophies.
The choice hung in the air.
Sharp.
Dangerous.
And dripping with want.
I mean, I see that we can take on this. Come on! Here we go!