She left behind a dozen warriors with lightning and shadow-burnt sword wounds until she found the fighter who had felled them. Grace passed by those crying for mercy, for death, for the glade or for their mothers. Well-fed crows scattered to the trees as the valkyries made their choices. Some of the delirious dying thought they saw winged angels some saw armored warriors and some saw barefoot maidens. The valkyries dispersed among the victims, galloping, dreamlike. The sisters sang to open the barrier between worlds, a trick only valkyries know, and leapt over the hedge to the living world, where the sun beat down on the hillside littered with the dead. With her great war hammer lifted, Grace led her sisters to the magic hedge closest to the battle. As the valkyries mounted their horses, the warriors wagered on who would return, hoping for their own relatives and friends. “War,” said one, the eldest, called Grace.Ĭheers erupted from the dead warriors at the long table. Red mist covered the muted sun of the Netherworld, and the valkyries in their feasting glade turned their noses up to inhale the smell of nearby fire and blood.
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