Cold Touch

2

With a sudden burst of exhilaration the young Valkyrie passed through the misty billows hanging high in the Asgardian sky.

She reveled in the moment; letting all the stress and pain fade away as she soared higher into the never-ending sky.

Breathing in deeply and slowly. Chest rising and falling in sync with the powerful beat of infallible wings. Grey eyes slowly closing, savoring the feeling of true, unadulterated freedom.

She sought an escape. A way to leave her responsibilities and tasks. Wanting to abandon the chore of determining which warriors shall live and die. Wanting to end the anticipation that accompanied the warriors as they took their final steps onto the battlefield. Valhalla did not want to wait for them there; she didn't want to ferry them off to the afterlife. This curse was one that the young Asgardian no longer desired, though she never sought out this position to begin with.

Drifting higher into the oceanic sky, Valhalla allowed herself a moment of blissful relaxation, and though oxygen was scarce at these heights, the young Valkyrie was in her element. Away from the chaos of Asgard and its king. Away from threats of war and visions of blood. Away, far away, from the world and all nine realms.

Opening her eyes again, Valhalla circled the shimmering castle, descending, fully aware that these moments were few and far between, and soon they would be but a distant memory teasing her burdened body. This artificial freedom was an encumbrance and an incentive. It bred hope, and hope had always been a dangerous thing for the hopeless.

Another vision shot through her unguarded mind and blurred her sight, impeded her perception of the present. Faltering in her landing, she stumbled and fell onto the unforgiving pearl-colored marble, gritting her teeth as excruciating pain ripped through her skull from temple to temple.

Crashing unceremoniously to the ground, palms taking the harshest punishment, swift wings curled around her failing form to ease the bite of the blow. Twisting in pain, Valhalla became captive in her own mind.

Flashes of bright, bloody possibilities sped through her line of sight. Screams echoed as flashes of fire consumed the once sparkling city. Piles of warriors lay broken and bloody upon the very steps upon which she laid in agony. Words, something that must be obtained to prevent this fate, something vital. Something important, injected purpose into her blood stream as one intelligible word shot through the adrenaline filled Valkyrie. Cancerous and bitter on her tongue, she managed to eject the name before it consumed her entirely. "Loki."

Slowly she rose to bare feet, swaying dangerously as her world reoriented itself. Up was down, and taking a few mindless steps forward, she barely contained the bile building in the back of her slender throat.

Paying no heed to the dishonest glances of concern from the overwhelming amount of armor clad guards that had witnessed her descent, she stumbled towards the dungeon. Feeling the cool breeze assault her sweat covered brow as she stepped over the threshold clumsily.

The grey concrete walls, inscribed with thousands of ancient ruins encompassed Valhalla, her fever ridden body pressed against the stone for a few moments to gather herself once more. Rough raised edges bit delicate skin as the vision weary woman ran her fingertips over the ancient ruins. A warning to those that wished to escape without a means to an end.

Pushing off the rough wall, she began the steep decent to the lowest levels of this inescapable prison. Past the many prisoners of war that Thor, on Odin's behalf, had acquired, each group of twenty or so had been shoved into tiny cells together, knowing what cowardice they had each shown. Feeling it as their energy reached out to her desperately. Their fate determined by their failure to emerge victoriously, death without honor. The worst possible outcome for a battle-worn warrior.