Valkyrie Profile: Lenneth (Freya/Hrist)
“I’ve been thinking about something,” Hrist says.
Freya has not seen her for some centuries, and perhaps, if matters stood differently, she would pay better attention. But Freya, leaning on one arm of Odin’s throne, is too busy running through scenarios, calculating the odds they can still pull through when so much has gone wrong. Her conclusions are not pleasing. “What?”
Hrist steps forward. She clearly wants Freya to look at her, and perhaps that’s a lot of why the latter doesn’t. “Have I not been obedient, all this time?” she asks.
“More so than your sisters, at the very least.” She squints at a tapestry. Even without the Dragon Orb, they can still…
Hrist leans against the near wall. “Lenneth… she won’t forgive you, you know.”
Freya has no time for this, no time for anything. Asgard is crumbling! “It does not fall to a servant to forgive her masters,” she says, digging her fingers into the gold of the throne.
“You’ll pay for it yet.” Her armor glistens in the torchlight, the only dark thing in this brilliant hall.
“Is that a threat?” Her voice echoes, too loud, off the vaulted ceiling. “I can dismiss you just as easily as I did your sisters. Perhaps the time of the Valkyrie has passed, after all.”
“Peace,” Hrist says. “I have no intention of disobeying.” Her eyebrows lift ironically, but her mouth remains grimly set. “Although I suppose it is… irksome… to no longer be the favorite.”
“You would not be here now,” Freya says through gritted teeth, “if you were not chosen.”
“As a replacement, in a vessel not my own.” She sighs. “Have the very gods grown careless? But no.” Her eyes narrow, and there’s a predation in them that has nothing to do with physical strength. “You can’t grow, can you? So if you are careless, you must have been ever so.”
“You would chastise me?” The words crackle with the threat of her power. “Is every Valkyrie’s destiny to be ignorant of her proper place?”
“On the contrary, I am far too aware of it.” She steps forward again, more purposefully this time, and Freya stiffens-she will not, will not shrink back against the throne. “But I have not dispensed with my role; it has done so with me. Shall I, in this imperfect vessel, attempt to deliver retribution? And upon whom? The dying land of humans, or the rotting corpse that is Asgard?”
“Watch your tongue-”
“I will do what you want.” She is nearly abreast of the throne now, standing where before she has only ever knelt. “I will go presently; I only wondered about something.” Freya would rather look away, but the dark glint of armor is less harsh on her eyes than dazzling gold. “Gods cannot change,” Hrist remarks conversationally. “When they dwell in the sky, they are worshipped, reverenced. But, were such creatures mortal, they would be called brittle, useless-the basest of fools.”
“And if the gods were ants,” Freya hisses, “mortals would rule over them with impunity. But gods are neither ants nor humans, nor ever will be. Why concern yourself with matters that are irrele-”
“I see.” The Valkyrie turns away, walks the length of the hall. Her feet leave no imprints on the red carpet-no one’s ever do. She stops, once, halfway down. “I would have been your champion,” she says. “I would have been your fanatic. I would have upheld your need for absolutes in a world in which they cannot exist. I did so for… a very long time. But what are the servants to do when the masters themselves are uncertain?”
It’s a fair enough question, if a rather impudent one, and perhaps, if matters stood differently, Freya would pay better attention. But Freya, leaning on one arm of Odin’s throne, is too busy running through scenarios, calculating the odds they can still pull through when so much has gone wrong. Her conclusions are not pleasing. “Where are you going?”
Hrist does not look back. “To Brahms. And then to clean up the remnants of Lenneth’s failure, if need be. Fare you well.” She is gone.
Freya squints at a tapestry. Even without the Dragon Orb, they can still…