Page 89 of Veil of Blood and Bone

A fallen Valkyrie’s account of meddling gods.

There is nothing they do best if not interfere with any and all they see as under their fist. No matter where one goes in the Nine Realms, there they are. Permeating their power through the worlds.

Poisoning the tree.

And with the veil thinning...

But that’s not my thought. Is it? The veil? It’s another's worry.

Wind batters the boards of the house. This is better than some apartment in the town center, isn’t it? I chose it for its combination of proximity and isolation.

The realization thins and solidifies. I remember dark wood and metal. Shelf upon shelf of books and trinkets I’ve collected over the years.

A high attic loft, where I can take off from the widow’s walk.

I kick the trunk lid closed. These journals belong in a museum where some modern beast has been built to preserve history. Like me.

I’m a relic from a time gone by.

Me and the pages, the careful notes here.

Disoriented, I collapse on the couch, knees weak and ankles crossing.

“And what will reading about the past do, Forest Ulfson?” I sneer at myself, at the journal. “The words are faded and the memories worse, nothing but a thin layer of dust between me and the weight of the years.”

The earliest journals are a lost language. Something the gods took back.

I know I’ve learned it firsthand, and every second I’m alive is another reminder.

I gently lift the cover and an additional pressed flower falls on my lap. A lotus, brought by traders, the bloom unable to survive the harsh climate where I first met Helene.

Lotus...

It’s not natural to the gods of Asgard, but a symbol regardless. The lotus emphasizes the cycles of rebirth and the inevitable unfolding of destiny.

A shudder claws through me, and I flip to the next page.

Line after line of symbols stretch to the margins neatly. Audra, Sigrún, whoever she was when she began writing, kept the same habit in each of her lifetimes.

How has my memory returned in part but not Helene’s?

How can I picture Audra penning these journals in stolen moments around campfires, or behind bars, but not Helene?

I’ve salvaged the words for a reason.

This trunk, the others...I’ve hoarded thousands of pages on the struggles of two women, but for what purpose?

Life after life, their two souls have cycled the other, their vows of protection looping them together for eternity. The story is the same, no matter how the language differs or the handwriting.

It’s loss and it’s grief.

And beyond it, always at the center of the tale, is love.

The ache in my chest spreads, and my veins pump hot blood through frigid limbs. Through it all, we come back to one other.

I remember.

Despite the burn in my eyes, I keep reading. I devour one journal and move on to the next, this one with the pressed and desiccated head of a dandelion tucked between the pages.