In Norse fairytales there is always a bear. Claws and teeth for ripping, biting, hunting, blood. Blood on bright white fur, on snow. Red against clean white clothes and linen.
In Norse fairytales there is always a prince. Handsome and youthful. Vigorous and full of life. Sometimes the hero and sometimes in need of rescue. Often he and the bear are enemies. Sometimes they are friends.
And sometimes they are the same.
Valkyrie has slain a bear. And she has slain a man. Red blood on her white uniform. Red like wine.
She drinks another cup and pours more.
She sees the blood on her clothes. Blinks. It's gone and so is her white Valkyrie uniform, replaced with he black jumpsuit. Scrapper 142. A scrapper is only what she can carry.
Today she carries her incapacitator, two pistols in the holsters at her sides, a cup of wine with more nearby, and an intention. The bear.
When she has had enough to drink, and the world is wine fuzzy and warm, she walks. Up.
Stairs come too fast under her heavy feet and fall away as up she goes. And dark the sky. Is this what happens in the fairytales? Eventyr in Norsk. Even tyr. If she were weaker and more emotional, the thought would occur to her: "even tears." But she's not.
Stairs and doors. Locks. Locked out. Locked in. Prisoners behind beautiful castle doors.
The stairs are dark because the sky is dark, but not really; Everything is light and fun in the Grandmaster's domain. Prison.
The red and white door. It's taller than her. Twice as big as a normal door and for good reason. Red on white. Like blood on a uniform. Or maybe the other way around.
She opens it.
In the fairytales the bear promises a poor girl that her family will be rich and happy if she promises to come with him to his castle to be his wife. She agrees. Because heroes make sacrifices.
Heroes make sacrifices.
In the fairytale she goes with the bear to his castle far away. By day he is a bear. Gruff. Covered in fur. Up the stairs far away.
And by night, he transforms into a prince. And they lay side by side in the dark. She is never allowed to see his face but knows he is there.
She pushes. Opens the door. Red and white room. Dark the room. Dark the night. But she can still see.
Sleeping is the man. Not a prince. Not a bear. Not a monster. A man.
She looms. No, she watches. She is not in a looming mood tonight. Her vision wobbles.
By day he is a monster, big and full of rage. By night he is relaxed and calm and peaceful and delicate. A human.
This is the secret she keeps: the grandmaster's prize is a farce. This is the other secret: so is she.
She reaches a hand down. His skin is soft. His hair, greying slightly at the temple is also soft. Destructible, he is.
In the fairytale, the girl lights a red candle and a bit of wax drops on the prince's perfect white cheek. And he awakes and is taken away by a witch. Cursed. Because to see the truth of who we really are in the full light is a curse. The bear prince is cursed.
The scrapped does not wake him. Her only friend. She's heard this fairytale before.
Instead she takes a slug of wine from the bottle. She didn't realize she'd carried it with her. A scrapper is only what she can carry. She carries wine.
A drop falls from her lips. And onto to her jumpsuit. Blinks. It's back. Red blood on her white Valkyrie uniform. Blinks. It's gone again.
She does not wake him because in this story he is not the bear.
She is.
