Roaring flames swirled around her, but all Freyja Ragnarsdóttir felt was cold.
She stared down through coal-dark eyes at the prone form that lay beneath her. She’d shifted her leg off their windpipe, a sorry excuse for a mercy considering the sickening detour their leg now took once past the knee. The still-warm haft still rested against the break, and she let her hand fall from it, the spear crumbling into ash once it left her grasp.
The power of an ancient terror thrummed through her veins, but Freyja just felt numb.
This had never happened before. Each time Veljara had emerged, it had been a conscious decision, a collaboration, an agreement. Apart from the concert, where that discordant tone had ripped Veljara free, every single transformation had been symbiotic. But this time had been different. The growling voice in her head had made it incredibly clear: she had wanted to kill Spork, because she saw them as a threat to her relationship with Freyja and their shared goal of bringing forth Ragnarok; a goal that Freyja was no longer sure they truly shared.
She moved gently, metal scraping against asphalt as she slid her arms beneath them; one resting under their knees, careful not to jostle their leg, and the other behind their head.
Spork Fuchs, the one person Freyja cared about in this world, was cradled against her chest. Yet Freyja felt hollow, a void that grew within her every second, its teeth begging to sink into her flesh and devour her from the inside out.
She sighed, wanting to give in but not wanting Spork to be left alone. So instead, Freyja let the flames devour the both of them, the last vestige of Veljara’s power turning them both to ash and smoke and nothing before the flames returned to their home.
When Freyja materialized back in her apartment, she found herself staring at one of the shelves. The ancient helm that sat upon it stared back at her accusatorily, as if questioning her betrayal. Gone was the metal and flame, the armor and leather, the weight of the valkyrie’s presence. Freyja turned towards the couch, intent on letting Spork rest there, when a loud clatter erupted from the floor behind her.
Ah. It had appeared that not all aspects of Veljara had vanished.
Freyja whirled around to see that her newfound wings had sent a collection of wooden knick-knacks toppling unceremoniously to the floor. She stepped backward, careful to avoid any shelves, but stumbled when her legs hit something else. She took a few heavy steps back to settle herself even as someone loudly complained about the lack of attention he was receiving.
A couple of rulers, gauze, and some medical tape later Freyja sat on the floor, staring up at Spork. She’d done the best she could with what field medicine she’d picked up from her father, but they’d need an actual cast at some point. How was she going to take them to the hospital? Would the doctors recognize their injuries as the same ones sustained in the fight with Veljara? Would they assume she was involved because they both had wings? Would Spork even want anything to do with her once they regained consciousness? Would they?
Click.
A faint sound managed to pull Freyja from her thoughts, the tattered edges hanging limply. It was followed by another click, then two more. It seemed as though they were coming from her door. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d returned to the apartment, but there was no way anyone should have been able to track her or Spork here, right?
Freyja got her answer as one last click came from the door, followed by the sound of the lock sliding open. She watched as the handle turned a moment later, dragging herself to her feet, gaze flicking around the apartment for something to wield, a weapon to defend Spork with. Nothing jumped out at her, and by the time she considered just grabbing them and escaping via window the door had already swung open, a figure calmly stepping through with a backpack slung over her shoulder.
She stared down through coal-dark eyes at the prone form that lay beneath her. She’d shifted her leg off their windpipe, a sorry excuse for a mercy considering the sickening detour their leg now took once past the knee. The still-warm haft still rested against the break, and she let her hand fall from it, the spear crumbling into ash once it left her grasp.
The power of an ancient terror thrummed through her veins, but Freyja just felt numb.
This had never happened before. Each time Veljara had emerged, it had been a conscious decision, a collaboration, an agreement. Apart from the concert, where that discordant tone had ripped Veljara free, every single transformation had been symbiotic. But this time had been different. The growling voice in her head had made it incredibly clear: she had wanted to kill Spork, because she saw them as a threat to her relationship with Freyja and their shared goal of bringing forth Ragnarok; a goal that Freyja was no longer sure they truly shared.
She moved gently, metal scraping against asphalt as she slid her arms beneath them; one resting under their knees, careful not to jostle their leg, and the other behind their head.
Spork Fuchs, the one person Freyja cared about in this world, was cradled against her chest. Yet Freyja felt hollow, a void that grew within her every second, its teeth begging to sink into her flesh and devour her from the inside out.
She sighed, wanting to give in but not wanting Spork to be left alone. So instead, Freyja let the flames devour the both of them, the last vestige of Veljara’s power turning them both to ash and smoke and nothing before the flames returned to their home.
When Freyja materialized back in her apartment, she found herself staring at one of the shelves. The ancient helm that sat upon it stared back at her accusatorily, as if questioning her betrayal. Gone was the metal and flame, the armor and leather, the weight of the valkyrie’s presence. Freyja turned towards the couch, intent on letting Spork rest there, when a loud clatter erupted from the floor behind her.
Ah. It had appeared that not all aspects of Veljara had vanished.
Freyja whirled around to see that her newfound wings had sent a collection of wooden knick-knacks toppling unceremoniously to the floor. She stepped backward, careful to avoid any shelves, but stumbled when her legs hit something else. She took a few heavy steps back to settle herself even as someone loudly complained about the lack of attention he was receiving.
“Bygul! Farðu úr veginum!”
Freyja whisper-shouted as the honey-coated cat shot her an annoyed look before quickly joining his sister at the top of their cat tree, adding his haughty gaze to hers as they surveyed their kingdom.“Heimski köttur.”
Freyja muttered as she continued towards the couch, nudging a pillow out of the way with her knee before gently laying Spork down upon it. She tilted their head slightly, sliding a pillow under it before stepping back, letting out a breath. Their leg still sat awkwardly, and Freyja ran a hand through her hair. Right. She’d broken it. That...that needed to be fixed.A couple of rulers, gauze, and some medical tape later Freyja sat on the floor, staring up at Spork. She’d done the best she could with what field medicine she’d picked up from her father, but they’d need an actual cast at some point. How was she going to take them to the hospital? Would the doctors recognize their injuries as the same ones sustained in the fight with Veljara? Would they assume she was involved because they both had wings? Would Spork even want anything to do with her once they regained consciousness? Would they?
Click.
A faint sound managed to pull Freyja from her thoughts, the tattered edges hanging limply. It was followed by another click, then two more. It seemed as though they were coming from her door. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d returned to the apartment, but there was no way anyone should have been able to track her or Spork here, right?
Freyja got her answer as one last click came from the door, followed by the sound of the lock sliding open. She watched as the handle turned a moment later, dragging herself to her feet, gaze flicking around the apartment for something to wield, a weapon to defend Spork with. Nothing jumped out at her, and by the time she considered just grabbing them and escaping via window the door had already swung open, a figure calmly stepping through with a backpack slung over her shoulder.
"Mari?"
Bygul! Farðu úr veginum! - Bygul! Get out of the way!
Heimski köttur. - Stupid cat.
Heimski köttur. - Stupid cat.
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