No Music

There was a saying amongst the warrior women of the Sisterhood (there were many…), a proverb that had been repeated many times throughout the course of her indoctrination “Where are you?" Advisors of the Shield would demand, of the newest generation. "Here!" The Daughters would answer boldly together, just like a well-oiled machine. "What time is it?" They would ask next. "Now!" The infants would return. "What are you?" "This moment!…" Young and rudely naive to the expectations of the very different world beyond, Valkyrie had grown brash, impulsive and overly hasty in both behaviour and thought; her heart was as unforgiving as her mind was tenacious - it was all crudely concocted beneath the prevalent irrationality of preadolescence. A molotov cocktail, in many ways. This brilliant defiance and unmovable arrogance was what gave the Shieldmaidens such renown ferociousness. They feared nothing, but failure. Age and size did not interfere with their terrier-like resolution. Perfection was key. Unmoved by his lack of submission (she didn’t need him to be scared), her wide eyes held onto him with ravenous intent. What she did not expect was his stony stand of silence, and as the seconds bled by between them, her coiled and ready posture began slowly to stiffen. One ear flinched against the cold, hard surface of her helm. His eyes had softened - they no longer mirrored the predatory buzz, which yet lingered in her own. Oblivious, near blinded by her own self-absorbed ambition, she missed the gentle curve of bewildered amusement relieve the darker expression of his face; the fear, the predatory wanting. The lips beneath it all parted as expected, hoped for even, and for the briefest moment, she indulged in the fanciful idea that he might stoop to grovel for her mercy. That’s what man was, right? Sniffling, stupid and cowardly - like Vynter. But as she watched him, a small smirk quirking the false extent of her broad, friendly grin (listening with both ears pricked and eagerly waiting), he said nothing whatsoever, and the event brought her no gratification at all; instead his nose carried her eyes away towards the trees, and Valkyrie’s ego fell like a shot duck, from its pedestal. Confused (and so easily distracted), she scanned the vicinity directed to by his gesture. “Yeah, trees...” She blurted, dissatisfaction written through each word and her narrow eyes doubled back with a glimmer of anger, pooling in their midst. He was lean, lanky, though unlike the ungainliness of the colt she had seen. His throat stood quite upright with a regally placed head, and his shining black pelt was marred only by what seemed to her to be a long line of well-orchestrated bird poo. Though he looked to tower above her, he hardly did at all. Valkyrie bristled and slid a step forward.