She had failed to notice the waif-child at first, for her measly presence was hardly worthy of acknowledgement, but when it - she - nestled in against her thigh, Valkyrie’s eyes turned from the speaking Matron to find the source of the pressure. The frigid woman was unquestionably surprised, even startled and despite her instant urge to pull her pure flesh clear of the filthy orphan’s touch, there was a feeling inside her that overwhelmed the stomach-turning disgust, something maternal; warm and fuzzy.
So, against her better judgement, she leaned subtly back to support the growing weight of the small girl’s insecurity and when the voices again rose in chorus above the jovial music, the proud Shieldmaiden swerved her neck sharply to address her tiny companion.
“I didn’t catch your name last time,” her feminine voice presented with an unusual element of kindness (for on some, even distant level, they were still women - perhaps…). Without specifically removing their connection altogether, Valkyrie swindled on her neat, sure toes so that she could view the emaciated filly without the burning cramp. The music was soothing, inspiring, and though she didn’t realise it the sweet sound leaked a strange sweetness into the rigidness of her soured soul.
She continued, glancing briefly across the crowed now apparently dispersing into smaller groups or pairs, “Call me Valkyrie.” The rosy, velvety tip of her nose lifted in gesture to the glowing green leaf in her hair; it had a marvellous semblance to the foliage of the Living Tree which had perished before them both in the rainforests weeks before. The Daughter said nothing of it though and recoiled in quiet thought. There was a nasty smell about the child and she moved her focus to the putrid looking skin. A visible rash had eaten away at much of the body - even rising up the arms of her pitiful looking wings,
As much as this frail girl repulsed her, Valkyrie couldn’t help the rising want to rescue.
The Pinnacle
