Demon-Killing Sword

21.3 Valkyrie

She gagged. The air was thick. She couldn't breathe. Muninn wiped at her face, but there was nothing to wipe away. Miasma.

Her eyes were closed, suddenly. She opened them.

Miasma coiled thick around her. It was dark, so dark she couldn't tell if it was day or night. Her shoulder burned. With every beat of her heart, it pounded with a dull, hot throbbing that never let up. Her back ached, her wing twisted and pinched under her. "Huginn," she coughed.

Demons screamed and screeched. Their voices seemed to come from right over her shoulder, right around the corner, so close she could reach out and touch them. Shapes swirled in the fog. Claws and fangs threatened, only to vanish at the last second. Eyes glowed, but only when she was in the act of looking away. She heard the crack of wings and jolted, but no wind beat her down to the floor. Muninn shivered helplessly. It hurt too much to fight or run. She curled up tighter and pulled her coat over her. Go away. Everything should just go away and leave her alone.

"Keep moving," a man ordered.

Muninn glanced up. A burly man stared back, one she'd glimpsed somewhere before. "Sigurd, you have to keep moving."

She shook her head. "I can't," a deep voice mumbled.

A demon roared nearby. The man whipped around and stared into the shadows. She staggered to the side. Sunk to her knees. What's the point of all this? Even if he got there, even if he killed the demon king, what then? There was no way to repair things between humans and demons. The world would never go back to the way it had been. And even if it did, what then? Half-demons like him would never be accepted anywhere.

Brunhild will never be mine.

The burly man let out a snarl and hoisted her over his shoulders. "Dammit, Sigurd," he muttered.

She didn't resist, but let herself hang. They only cared because he was useful. Because he was a competent knight, a noble who could rally the people, expendable. If the miasma had never come, he would have been forgotten his whole life. Unworthy of recognition. Forced to lurk in the shadows, no more than trash. Instead, he was their hero. For as long as it was convenient, they would put him on the pedestal of hero. It didn't hurt them any. Praise the fool. Have the king knight him. Butter him up, then send him out to die. And he would. He would die. Soon. Friendless, alone, dead just like the men they'd sent with him. All so those cowards behind the wall could say they'd done their best and hide behind their wall. What did they lose? Another half demon. Another piece of filth.

Shadows clung to her. They broke from the trees like cobwebs as the man dragged her on. They wrapped themselves around her until she was cloaked in them. Her hands dangled before her face, down the man's side. Perfectly black. Utter pitch. A sick sense of satisfaction welled up inside her. This is how it should be.

Two children ran at her, hands outstretched for hugs, both splattered in white paint. She held out her hands, and they blasted through her and out the other side. She turned. A man caught them in a hug, a wide smile on his face. Feathers stuck through his hair and gathered at his chest, while black fingernails had been carefully filed to a safe length. Muninn stared. It was the man from before—Huginn's father. But he stood tall, and his eyes were dark, his smile easy, his shoulders relaxed. This was from before he went mad.

He patted the children on the back and let them grab onto his work pants with their wet-paint hands. "What happened here?" he asked, laughing.

The children glanced at one another. A smile passed from the lips of the dark-haired girl to the white-haired boy. "Nothing," the girl said. They giggled.

"Eira, my love, what happened?" the man called. He staggered towards the door, legs heavy as the children held tight to his pants legs.

"Hmm?" a familiar voice asked.

Muninn caught her breath despite herself. No.

A beautiful woman appeared in the doorway, dressed all in white. White feathers draped through her hair and traced down her forearms, complimenting her simple dress. Her pale eyes sparkled in the sunlight, full of love and life. Only the faintest hint of the dark smudges around her eyes were visible; they traced along the edges of her eyelids and backwards, giving her an elegant brush despite her let-down hair and housedress.

"Mom," Muninn breathed. She stepped forward, then stopped herself. This is only a memory. Mom isn't here.

"Did they get into the paint?" he asked. He made it to the door at last and stepped inside, shedding the children as they let go to make room for her mother.

The kitchen was splattered in paint. It dripped down from the table and pooled on the floor. One of the chairs laid victim to the paint, tipped on its side, upholstery drenched in white. Tiny hand- and footprints covered everything. The floor, the table, the cabinets. There wasn't a single surface that had escaped the children's onslaught unscathed.

The man raised his eyebrows. His lips pressed tight. Emotions struggled for dominance on his face: anger, irritation, exhaustion. The children stared at him, nervous, holding each other's hands tight. Then he shook his head and laughed. "I guess we're repainting the whole kitchen?"

The children exchanged a glance and giggled again.

"What do you mean?" her mother asked.

He turned and gestured all around them at the still-drying paint.

Eira looked at him, confused. "It's always looked like that."

The man froze. Slowly, he turned to look at the children. "Muninn, what did you do?"