12-10-2016, 05:50 PM
our demons are all around us and they don't come from hell
every single one of them reminds us of ourselves
every single one of them reminds us of ourselves
Time had become meaningless.
The last thing she remembered, truly remembered, was handing off the crown to Scorch. It had been her final act as Queen, and even then, it had been trying to get through that meeting with any semblance of control. Her injuries had been deep, catastrophic, and standing before her sisters, she had struggled to remain upright. She had not been fit to rule, not in that state, not when she had been so uncertain of her own survival. Her self-healing powers had sent probes throughout her own body, calculating the damage, and what she had been found had been devastating. Survival had not seemed possible.
As soon as the deed had been done, when the newly crowned Queen stepped forward to lead the people, Brunhild had stepped back and dissolved into shadow. At first, she raced into the belly of the jungle, and then, when her control of the shadows faltered, she limped. She had expected that her kingdom-given gifts would be stripped immediately, but it was more of a leak. She worked on healing herself, but it did not come easily or without effort. It was slow. In time, she barely felt supernatural ability to heal at all. And so that gift went first.
Her control over the shadows slipped away slower. It hurt less to become the darkness and so she resided like that for several months, her atoms and cells spreading out slowly on the forest floor as she tried to knit herself back together. Months passed and she became less and less able to shift into the shadows. At first, she could still sink into the darkness, but only for a short while. Soon, she could not do it at all. And so, that gift left her, as well.
Brunhild was then left to her own devices to heal, and, well, it took time. The shame of her weakness burned deep, and she did not emerge from the depths of the jungle. She remained cocooned, cut off from the kingdom’s politics and tides. She did not hear of the wars or the battles or the shifting of the crowns. She did not hear anything except the beat of her heart as it regained its strength, her pulse going from lethargic to active, her eyesight clearing, her breaths coming in deep gulps instead of shallow gasps.
Her health returned just in time for the world to dissolve once more. Perhaps that is why it takes her so long to make her way down the Mountain. Perhaps that is why she holes up at its base. She has no magic for it to return to her, no benefit to bestow upon her, but she finds comfort in its alienness. She finds that there is stability in it. She had no memory of the place, but neither did anyone around her.
Of course, even that cannot last forever. Eventually, the valkyrie warrior peels away from it, her heavy head swinging toward the sound of voices, her dark eyes heavy-lidded and neutral. She had never been a great beauty, but there was a calm to her, a power and depth. She would not let trials take that away.
When she comes to the forest, she breathes deep, and she sees him. His red seared into her memory in a way she could not name, could not ever understand. The memory of him had been something that she had held close during those months, those years, apart; at some moments, she felt it was all that she had.
So she does not wait to make her way toward him. She simply navigates whatever horses linger in the silver light of the moon and walks straight toward him, her expression washed clean except the occasional spark in her dark eyes. “Rodrik,” she breathes in her husky voice and then falls silent, feeling an ocean of emotion storming inside of her and being completely unequipped with how to handle it.
>:] @[Rodrik]