SIGRUN, THE VALKYRIE QUEEN

Death, a journeys end for one religion and only the beginning in another. Yet, for as long as the idea and conception has been alive people have often wondered and feared what comes after. A blissful paradise or a never ending cycle in a merciless wheel of life. Regardless of what does there is always someone, something that exists to take them to whatever awaits them on the other side.
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Whether an angel with white feathered wings of satin, a comforting hand in such an emotional time or the truth. A Valkyrie, a warrior with wings of gold knives and feathered bloodied red. Sigrun, a Valkyrie Queen and the strongest of her Valkyrie sisters has been a bridge between the living and the afterlife. Individuals chosen by her were taken to an afterlife befitting of their death regardless of their morals in life, or what they've done. A belief worth living and dying for, a death fought for. It didn't matter what atrocious deed you've done within your life so long as your death redeemed you. She'd take them to an eternal afterlife where others who'd died fighting joined, an eternal celebration for their work and will in life.
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But things shifted, lives shifted and something in the world became dark— malicious. Corrupting things, whispers of dark promises that took hold of people. The lives of people changed throughout the cosmos and she could hear it echo, lives within each galaxy were no longer stagnant to her own world. Instead she could hear fighting from all wakes of it, many lives dying to whatever had rippled and changed.
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But she didn't get to learn of it soon enough, until it was upon her doorstep and she was fighting something— something dark, something changed. More came and with every bloodied swing of her wings, until her gold was dyed red and for every one she slaughtered two more took its place. She was strong, she was powerful but for all her might there were too many and she made sure to die in the same way she judged others, fighting. They pierced her skin, broke through her armor and stabbed her a thousand times, until flesh was gone from bone and more of her blood splattered the ground than their own. She fell with a swing against her neck, taking her conscious in an instant and with it she was judged for her death. [break][break]A never-ending, merciless cycle of life and death.

THE LINES HAVE BLURRED, WHO ARE WE?

They were small muffled noises at first, ones that couldn't be comprehend. Easily looked over and dismissed at the most nearby object capable of producing such low white noise. A ringing in the ear, easily rubbed away when a discomforted child brings it up to their parents, the noise drowned out by the voices of her parents.
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Then there were whispers, tangible words that she could understand talking to her— calling to her. Afraid at first she'd listen to the voices at night when they were the clearest. Clutching a stuffed toy tightly to her chest with eyes screwed shut, her name repeated like a mantra begging her to look up, to (look at me) but it only further drew her away during those nights, afraid to look and see whatever ghostly visage stood tall at the edge of her bed. Whatever it was, her parents called it an imaginary friend but it called itself Sigrun.
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She wasn't even in double digits when the voices talked to her, a volume unaffected and unhindered by whatever was around her. A voice that never raised or yelled but was loud enough, like someone in the room was talking and addressing her. Nothing drowned it out and it was then that the ghostly visage took on a more solid form. Tall, more than six feet donned with gold and red and a mask that expressed no emotion and a voice that matched. Johanna had heard of angels before.
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But this was no angel.
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Ten years old and she met her best friend, Garrett, when they moved to a new neighborhood. He was outgoing, friendly and everything Johanna felt she wasn't. But he listened to her when she confessed on the swingset about the voice in her head, about the not-angel that stood in her line of sight, like a statue unmoving as it stared down at her. Waiting for something. "Waiting for what?" He asked, quiet with wide eyes.
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"For me."
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He understood unlike the others, she was too old to have an imaginary friend now. She needed to stop it and soon the protests died on her lips. No matter how much she fought that it wasn't imaginary they didn't listen— didn't want to. Whispers at night between her parents and she could hear the word thrown around, imaginary, maybe sick, maybe she needed help. Johanna spoke no more of it, afraid they'd say she was sick, afraid of what sick could even mean.
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She wept that night, frustrated and upset that her parents didn't understand her and refused to believe her. For the first time the statue of the not-angel, of Sigrun moved and knelt down beside her bedside. (You are not sick) and for whatever reason, she believed it.
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Garrett remained the only one to believe her, to understand what she was wasn't normal but that it was real to her. That whatever it was, figment of her imagination or something else it was real to Johanna and that's all that mattered to him. So he learned the name of the not-angel and would refer to it as such. Though Johanna never said anything about it, when he said Sigrun's name, there was something soft— familiar about it. A feeling that washed over her like a tidal wave, both longing and painful to feel.
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They were high school sweethearts, attached at the hip and perfectly content with it. Voted most likely to get married, she had a childish and yet happy life growing up. The grueling nights spent writing, working, practicing until her fingers bled or her muscles couldn't carry her weight remained a secret. For whatever reason Sigrun was worried about something, an anxiety that ripped through Johanna and tore her in two with how strong, how emotional it felt. So when it'd asked her to work, to fight, to be stronger than she was she barely hesitated to agree.
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(Protect him)
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She didn't understand at the time but she listened well. Kept her grades up and attended the gym, attended core workouts, attended self-defense classes and even branched into martial arts. Whatever she needed to protect Garrett from she would, for Sigrun was worried and that spilled into her. Anxiety inducing and limb shaking with how strong it was. She didn't question, only ran further and smiled brighter when he'd smile at her.[break][break]

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She understood later, after he'd proposed to her. After they had been an item for six years and had recently moved in with each other the past year. A long night out on a date, because "dates never get old" and he wanted to continue to woo her off her feet. Sweet as it started it ended in anguish. Whatever they were, the familiar feeling within her chest when the two people had appeared at the end of the street.
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(They are not right. Protect him.)
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Whatever was 'wrong' with them she'd never know. There was no fight, her foot moved and she'd been ready to fight. Ready to throw a jaw breaking fist into the closest one but they didn't give her the chance. This lifetime they didn't need to fight with fists or blades, the gunshot rang throughout the alleyway and Johanna had gone still. Frozen with wide eyes as she awaited the pain to set in, but it hadn't and instead there was a thump behind her and her heart stilled. She shouldn't have looked back, she should have known to keep going. To pummel their bodies into the ground with the growing anguish she already had. Knowing what had happened, she should have moved forward. But she'd looked back and her world had shattered and the scream that ripped through her throat was both hers and the spirit's that resided inside her. Ear shattering as the windows in the apartments above shuddered and shattered.
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His bloody hand on her cheek as he apologized to her with his last breath, despite everything she couldn't keep the blood from flowing out. He died apologizing to her when she should have apologized to him. She wailed until her throat was raw, until it bled and the copper was on her tongue, until she couldn't fathom the pain that spread in her chest. Not just her own but the spirits too, until the world went dark and she couldn't bare to be awake any longer. [break][break]

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She'd been different after that, Sigrun was louder and more demanding. (Be better) If there was thought for a break the overpowering will would suggest otherwise. She ground her knuckles into the gym equipment until they bled, until the familiar dulled sensation of callouses covered the bottoms of her feet. The visage of Sigrun moved, like a predator pacing around prey as it circled her. Demanding her to move faster, to ignore the pain and to (be better).
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Though they wallowed in despair the spirit was not one to let it stop her, they had a job to do. Whatever it was that was different, whatever it was that had killed her lover and had ended Sigrun's life was similar to what was in those people. Whatever it was, whatever it took they would be ready and she would die a Valkyrie's death.
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She'd die fighting.

NOTES