III - Into the Night
As Silmeria adjusted the last strap of her armor, she realized just how unfamiliar the weight of it was on her shoulders. She used to be so accustomed to it that she barely noticed it. Now it dug and pinched and chafed against her. She keenly felt every wrinkle in her clothes that the metal pressed into her skin. Her skirt smelled of dust and was scored with creases from being kept folded in disuse for so long. Her golden greaves felt like weights around her legs.
She hadn't seen anyone deliver her armor. It had simply been setting at the foot of her bed when she awoke, like any other gift that Brahms chose to bestow upon her.
She wondered if Brahms would see her off, or try to detain her. Somehow she just couldn't imagine walking away from his castle forever.
It was strange how much she'd grown accustomed to being here. She would miss her room here, the view from her window, all the belongings he'd lavished upon her. As stifling as it was being trapped here, the prospect of freedom scared her more than she wanted to admit. What place did a valkyrie have in the world after Ragnarok? She couldn't even know if Lenneth would welcome her back in Valhalla. She had to find what place in the world was left for her, or make one for herself.
Or not. The possibility was uncomfortably enticing. She knew it was disgraceful to have such thoughts, but she had lived with disgrace for so long it hardly mattered now. But that would be defying the will of the gods she had once served. And it would mean the abandonment of her duties as a valkyrie, if that meant anything anymore. Silmeria knew that Hrist would never forgive her for even thinking such a thing.
For her sake, she had to set things right. She wished with all her being that Hrist had saved her. It was her fault that Brahms had slain her. If she had only defeated him herself, she would not have been captured and Hrist would not have been sent to rescue her. Now was her time to atone for past failures.
Now fully dressed in her golden battle gear, Silmeria put her gauntleted hands to the doors of her chamber, her home, her prison. The intricately inlaid wood was still deeply scarred from her early futile attempts to break out. They swung forward with no resistance. Brahms had dispelled the wards.
The hallways seemed even more mazelike than she'd remembered them, an endless expanse of pale marble walls hung with rich red velvets. Everything seemed to take on a scale of disproportionate enormity. After seeing nothing but the inside of her cell for so long, she was nearly dizzy. She frequently found herself involuntarily nodding her head from the weight of her helmet. She walked slowly, her eyes drinking in the sights around her. It would be quite pathetic if she managed to get herself lost on her way out. But there was really no hurry. It was just nightfall outside, and she had many hours before the castle would drift back into ethereal space for the day.
Eventually, she found the room she was looking for. Not the hall leading to the exit, but Brahms's own throne room.
She found it fortunately empty. As she stepped into the large chamber, memories came flooding back to her of her defeat. He had been sitting in his throne when she encountered him. He had looked at her calmly when she raised her sword to challenge him. She wondered if he had looked at Hrist that same way before he struck her down.
It was here that she had fallen, and here that the last vestiges of her soul were to be found.
Silmeria silently prayed that her powers as a death goddess had not failed her, although it seemed a silly thing for a goddess to be praying. She clasped her hands, closed her eyes, and concentrated on Hrist. She remembered her flowing black hair, her dark eyes, the austere expression she wore like a mask. Her voice, shrill as a crow's call. The faint red light that emanated from her sword in battle. And then she saw them, flickering and dancing before her. The shards of Hrist's soul.
"Hrist, please let me take you from here," Silmeria whispered as she plucked a golden feather from her helm. Hrist should have been the one to walk out of this castle. It seemed a great irony to Silmeria that she would be rescuing the dark valkyrie. This was no place to lay a goddess to rest. Her soul could never be at peace. She had died with a task unfinished, and at the hands of an unholy abomination.
Silmeria concentrated with all her might, and Hrist's soul was drawn into the feather she held. She then returned it to its place in her helmet.
She wondered if Brahms would try to stop her now. Surely this was an act of blatant defiance, and taking advantage of his generosity. But if she was going to walk out of the vampire king's life, why should she care if he was angry with her? This had to be done. To leave Hrist here was an act of vilest sacrilege and betrayal.
If he chose to attack her, she would be defeated, she was sure of it, but it was a risk she had to take. For Hrist. She knew the dark valkyrie would never have left her here if their situations had been reversed. But Hrist would not have submitted to being a vampire's captive either. Silmeria only wished she had that kind of courage.
This was her time to be strong, her time to be brave. She would return to Valhalla with Hrist, and they would be reunited with Lenneth. It would not be Frei that would greet her when she arrived, and it would be Lenneth she would have to bow to instead of Odin. But Valhalla was the rightful place for a valkyrie, not trapped in a vampire lord's castle. She repeated that to herself like a mantra as she retraced her steps from the throne room to the exit. Retracing the path she had taken when she had come to kill Brahms, so long ago. She knew it well. She would never forget it. She relived that path many times in her captive fancies. Thinking always about what she'd done wrong, how things might have been different.
She didn't see any of the nocturnal denizens of that skulked in the halls of the castle. She remembered having to cut a swath through them during her assault. The place seemed deserted, as cold and lifeless as its dark master. She wondered if Brahms had dismissed them, or if they had fled long ago, or if Hrist had killed them all when she'd come here to rescue her. Or perhaps it had been Lenneth. She sometimes forgot that she had come here too.
When she arrived at the doors leading to the outside world, she stared at them like they would disappear at any moment. She wondered if when she opened them, they would lead back into the room she'd just escaped from. She'd relived that vision many, many times in her dreams. Or Brahms would be waiting to finally kill her after all her years of imprisonment, although that was highly improbable. He could have killed her at any time, why would he do so now? Unless he wanted to torture her first, turn her hope of escape to ashes and snatch freedom from her when she'd gotten just a taste. Or maybe she would fry when the sunlight hit her for the first time. After spending so long in the company of the vampire king, after drinking his blood, maybe her very spirit had been corrupted.
She idly reached up to stroke the enchanted feather in her helm. She would leave here, together with Hrist, and she would find some way to revive her, by whatever means, and they would serve the Aesir together as they always had. That was her fate, so it must be. She was as foolish as Hrist had always said if she were to let herself be confused about this.
Taking a deep breath and a long step, placing one hand against the door and the other on the hilt of her sword, she pushed the great door open. And despite all the fears and doubts she'd entertained, it did indeed swing forward before her. The nightfall of Midgard welcomed her.
Her eyes devoured the vast green plains, the dark shadowed hills, the silhouette of jagged distant mountaintops, the streams shining like silver serpents in the moonlight, the tall grasses and white budded flowers that waved sinuously in the breeze. She had seen it all before from the distant height of her oriel, but to step out among the flowers close enough to smell them, to stand in the shadows of the trees filled her with overwhelming reverence for the sheer, stark beauty of the land that she'd never felt before. Asgard itself had never seemed so holy and enchanted.
To walk again upon Midgard. Surely this must only be a vision after all. It was much more beautiful than she'd remembered. She couldn't really be here. But she felt the breeze on her face, felt it toss her long golden braid, felt it catch the embroidered hem of her skirt. She had never felt so alive in her dreams.
It came to her like a scent on the wind, the sense of an unholy aura of corruption around her. A sense of unbalance, of something here that should not be. It was different than the energy of Brahms's kind, so familiar to her now. This was the stink of the netherworld. There were demons abroad this night.
Flickering pairs of unnatural red lights were closing in all around her. The eyes of defilers of souls. The twisted forms of their bodies were one with the darkness. If she had been a mere mortal soul they would have consumed her before she even noticed.
It seemed like a new sensation, so long ago was the last time she'd sensed them. Even as it filled her with revulsion at their presence, she rejoiced in the affirmation of her powers.
She wondered if her skills with her sword would work as well. Her golden blade flashed in the moonlight as she tore it from its rune-encrusted scabbard. She screamed as she charged them, and she was answered with a mad howl as a powerful thrust felled her first foe. Black blood sprayed across the grass.
There were several, but she couldn't see just how many. The place seemed like a sinkhole of evil, so strong was their presence here. She wished she would have had a chance to practice her swordsmanship more. Her sword began to grow heavier with each swing. One by one she cleaved through them, but there seemed to be no end to them.
The Norns were cruel indeed if they had spared her only to meet her end now. Silmeria screamed bloody death at the demons as the old battle rage overcame her. If they came for her soul, she wouldn't give them an easy time of it. She didn't feel their teeth tear at her, or their claws. Nor did she notice how much of her blood mingled with theirs in the windswept grass.
It wasn't until her sword slipped from her blood-slick hands that she realized how badly she was faring. She had not recalled her battles ever being so taxing, but she was without Einherjar at her side to aid her. She hoped the battle would be over soon.
She braced herself against one that was preparing to jump at her, crossing her gauntlets in front of her face in case it tried to tear out her throat. Her eyes shut involuntarily as the demon lunged at her, red eyes bright and bared teeth flashing.
But the deathblow never came. She heard a sickening wet crunch, and a howl of pain. But not her own. She forced herself to open her eyes.
Brahms stood before her, his great hands clasping a demon in the throes of its death spasms. He tossed it aside effortlessly.
Silmeria could only watch as the vampire king dispatched the rest of the unholy horde on her behalf. She had fallen to her knees. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. Her hair clung to her face, wet with blood beneath her helmet. It seemed a great feat of strength just to be able to stand again.
When the last of Hel's foul monsters had fled or fallen, Brahms went to her and extended his hand to help her to her feet. She did not take it. The pain of her disgrace was too raw. This seemed a final injustice, to be saved by the vampire king. She struggled to her feet without his aid.
"Silmeria . . ."
"I know. You warned me. Do you want me to thank you?" she said coldly as she removed her helmet and smoothed her hair back into place.
"I see you're still in a foul mood. I know you don't want to hear this from me, but you are too weak yet to take on such foes. I did not release you only to see you slain."
"If I die, it is the fate I choose."
"Spoken like a true pawn of the gods."
"Silence! Who are you to speak of the gods?!"
"Hel is behind this. I'd know her work as surely as I know anything. You would be within your rights to seek vengeance against this. Silmeria . . . "
"I'll hear no such talk. I'm done with you, Brahms. Don't ever expect to see me again."
"Not even if you're ordered to kill me?"
Silmeria was no stranger to disgrace, but she'd had enough of it at his hands. Without any further words, she ascended into the night sky.
Brahms watched her until she appeared no more than a golden comet among the stars. It was nearly dawn when he finally retreated into his castle, into his most private chambers, to the inner sanctum of his keep where no one but himself had access to. The room was barren save for an old, worn chair and a portrait covered over with a curtain. It smelled of dust, for he had rarely visited here since Silmeria had come to him.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to free her, or even to tell her of Ragnarok. Surely it would have been kinder to let her go on unaware of the doom of the gods. But he could not bear to keep her here in such a state. He had lived long enough to know true misery when he saw it.
He drew aside the curtain covering the portrait on the wall, and looked again upon the joyous face of his old queen. The artist had perfectly captured the golden shine of her hair and crown, the sparkle of her eyes, and the faint flush on her cheeks. She had smiled so much when she was alive.
They had both been quite young when they were wed, and such a rare beauty as she had truly been a blessing, for Brahms had never considered himself a handsome man. He had tried his best to ensure that she was happy. It wasn't difficult, for she was not melancholy by nature. She had been fond of dancing, of cards, of wine, of flowers in the spring, of birdsong in the morning, of the jests of the fool, of gallant courtiers who flattered her. He believed she grew fond of him eventually, for she smiled at him in much the same way she did at anything that brought her joy. And he made himself content with that. In time it truly seemed that they grew to be of one soul. Her delight in the simple joys of life had caused him to grow to love life as well.
All too well.
Brahms had become no mere vampire. Only the most diabolical of magics could have created one such as he. He never doubted that he had loved her truly, otherwise her sacrifice would have meant nothing. The greater the sacrifice, the greater the power the dark ritual bestowed. And none were more powerful than he. Perhaps not even the Dark Lady herself. The price of his immortality had been his greatest treasure, his beloved queen.
The queen he had seen given new form in a goddess sent to slay him. A valkyrie, bound by fate to fight and die for his oldest enemy. The moment he saw her, he was determined that he would not lose her again. Not to fate, and not to the gods she now served.
Brahms let the curtain fall back into place. He'd had the portrait commissioned only shortly before her death. Even when he had made himself determined to go through with the ritual, he had sensed a part of himself that simply wouldn't abide letting her go. And never would.
~ to be continued
Les Bla-Blas d' Auteur
Anyone who caught the blatant parallels to Robert Browning's "My Last Duchess" gets a cookie.