by Veruka
Prologue
In Medias Res
*+*+*
Flesh wreathed steel, and with the blending of blood and blade, the accursed soul of her enemy fled its wretched cage of bone and skin, and descended into the depths of Hel from whence it came.
The battle was far from over, and yet the black birds of death were already upon the ground, great beaks shredding the carrion of her kinsmen and her bane. Hot smoke, thick and dark as tar, widowed the earth of the sun, and cloaked the sky in a shroud of mourning. The heady scent of spilt blood took flight with the wind, and its icy gasp caressed her face, weaving cruel licks of filth into her flaxen hair.
All bowed before her as she bestowed death upon whomever she willed it to, and she willed it upon all. The hill atop which she fought writhed as though the earth itself was alive and impassioned by the battle above its resting place. . .but the earth was not alive; it was the men that blanketed it that squirmed, most half-dead and feeding the ground with red wounds for which the crows cawed in celebration.
She, Valkyrie, had created their banquet, had crafted this carnage from her bruised soul, from grey to black. This was her land, hers, and as it drank of the blood of her enemies, and the blood of her men; she drank of its power, and it filled her head with an intoxicating fog that shone in delirious spots of yellow and black behind her darkened eyes. The spirits of the slain rose up around her, their shrill screams augmented by the howling winds, their ethereal forms melting as they moved, entwining with the poisonous clouds that coiled up from gleaming flames.
Amidst the phantoms' dance, she threw her head back and laughed: a strange, mad sound, akin to a sob, that wrenched free of her mouth from deep within her belly. Her heart was a forge, and in its throbbing she could feel the Hammer of Thor pounding a violent tempest of power and rage that welled up inside of her with all the ache of a thousand unspilled tears. The pain of it was excruciating; she could not bear to contain it for long.
The earth groaned and shook, and a fissure broke beneath her feet, and split the ground, a dour mirror of the lightning that severed the heavens. A song wrought of thunder engulfed her, and for a moment there was peace. The black diminished and, bathed in a golden light, she was lifted to the sky atop a swan's wing. For a moment, she was gifted with a glimpse of the divinity men could but dream of.
From Midgard to Asgard, she ascended by the will of the Allfather Himself, and looked in astonishment upon the great realms of the ancient ones, and was rendered breathless from wonder.
The quiet gap in time was short. The picture became as coloured glass, and shattered. She stopped her ears at the deafening roar and shut her eyes as the shards of glory pierced her skin, tore through her corslet and painted it crimson with her own life. A ragged scream ripped from her throat as her body was ripped from her corporeal hope, and the forge within her heart burnt white with hatred and confusion, until she at last stilled and silenced, and found herself hovering within the Yawning Void, far beyond the gods.
Far above the gods.