The Jotun's Daughter

After

I watch as the couple turned away from the grave; there are tears in the mother's eyes. The father rest his chin on her hair for a beat before there is a flash of green energy, and they are gone. 

My own hair is hidden beneath my deep purple hood. The unusual ash-white color of it accompanied by the dark purple of my eyes can be unnerving for some; I understand this. 

Do I know these people who visit the burial place of what they believe are my remains? They seem so familiar, but as if from a dream that is fading from my mind. 

Vision says I can't show myself to them, not yet-and I understand that he means maybe never. They are not ready-and for that matter, neither am I. These people are in pain; I would surely make it worse. I understand pain; I understand it is necessary, but I do not encourage it and adamantly refuse to live in it any longer. 

I am for life.

When night is said and done, and the sun has risen once again, I walk. I start at the graveyard, and make my way East along the sidewalk. I must be heading back soon; I have so much left to learn and there is someone waiting for me. Through a hidden path and a flash of light, until gravel crunches beneath my feet as I pass beneath a banner that signals I'm home. Deeper into the campsite, I pass by a chain-link fence that separates me from the small school and it's respective children laughing and playing on the playground. That doesn't stop a young girl with blonde, curly hair, and sea green eyes from running over and staring up at me.

"You're pretty," She says without shame. I bend down so I am level with her, and give her a small smile.

"And you are beautiful," I reply.

"Thank you," she giggles.

"I'm afraid I must get going," I tell her, standing to walk away. 

Wait!" She calls. I turn to look back at her.

"Yes?"

"What's your name?"

The individual with eyes the color of clear midnight stands down the path, waiting for me, hand on the hilt of his black sword. We soak in the view of each other with the gratitude one only can muster when they are all too aware of how quickly things can be taken away. An odd pair, him and I, with his darkness and my light; and yet, there is no one's presence I take more comfort in. I tear my eyes a way from his smirk and it's implications, still aware of the child's question. 

"Hela," I tell the young girl.

"My name is Hela."

And somewhere, deep inside of me, a flame sparked.