Valkyrie of Desire

24. A Winged Trout

If you will deny daylight

how can I point to the sun?

Your mind is a dogmatic

masterpiece of delusion.

I would kill you where you stand

to destroy this infection.

Equality of outcome

it won't die with martyrdom.

So, I try again with sense—

the race, how many have won?

Equal opportunity

means there can be only one.

If you dare claim day is night

prove your censure with action.

Go blind staring at moonlight—

the righteous lie is undone.

—Nameless "Jerry" Faceless

The granite rocks of the hilltop sparkle with flecks of silver like a petrified starlit sky. The sun rises at Hildr's back. It warms her bare scalp, and dries the dew around the rock cairn she made for her shorn hair.

She wipes her eyes. Tears are too close to regret.

A few paces away, Peggy flaps her massive wings. The griffin ate dozens of fish for dinner. Hildr grunts. Staying close to the river has kept the beast well fed. Maybe Apple has more sense than she has been giving him credit for.

The obese shaman is already strapped onto their aviation saddle, and tiny Meepsin hangs on to the man's tattered robe like an ornament. The campsite is already clear of gear and swept into anonymity via a tree branch. She sniffles. The two of them got through their chores early, which gave her time to grieve and adjust.

It is touching. Hildr was primed for criticism. Treating the loss of her hair like a death is indulgent. She smiles into her hand, a hidden moment of appreciation. So far, Old Man Apple has shown surprising tactfulness. Perhaps he knows more about women than his leering manner suggests.

A brisk breeze makes Hildr shiver and stirs the hardy grass underfoot. This is the highest hill around. Past where Peggy waits is a steep drop off, their best place to launch. If the griffin fails to stay aloft, Apple can either push the beast to the edge of death with a spell or someone weighty can stay behind to lighten the load.

Doubt is self-fulfilling pessimism. Hildr lifts her chin and holds a grin as she steps around her hair's cairn. Peggy chirps and cocks her feathered head. Doubt also has an oily stench beasts can sense.

"I believe in you, girl." Hildr climbs up the saddle to join Apple and hugs his back despite his robe's wool tickling her shaved head. "Fly."

Apple nods at her command and tugs Peggy's reins. The griffin spreads her wings.

No pure eagle ever had a feathered span half this wide. Hildr grits her teeth. Succeed!

Peggy leaps like a lion. The force of the feat presses Hildr into their saddle. The griffin flaps hard, and they rise.

"Come on, girl!" says Hildr.

More violent flaps, and they gain altitude. Hildr squeals through gritted teeth with happy eyes. Every launch is a rush, flushing cheeks and bruising bodies. She pissed herself crying the first time she rode a griffin—a childhood memory unlocked; love with the thrill grew after.

Hildr squeezes her thighs against thick fur and the corded musculature shifting underneath. "Keep us up."

Meepsin slips from under Apple's robe and scrambles to slow his slide. They are higher than Lotus Hollow's aviary now. Could the fae man's twig-like body survive such a fall?