It’s time. My gleaming hair falls unbound past my shoulders, and my crimson shirt slides like silk, loose and flowing over tight jeans. The jewelry I wear is minimal, but matches the gold of my hair. I’ve been watching my man for years, and tonight I finally go to meet him. He will not recognize me, of course, and may not even notice me tonight–not at first. He will be mine nonetheless; it has been woven from his birth.
My sisters are all out, but I know I’ll see them later. They each have their own preparations to make, their own fated appointments to keep. We often ride alone, although we work in concert.
I give a final shake of my hair and stride out of the room, swinging into my leather jacket and taking up my helmet from the table. My bike is waiting for me, sleek and eager, and we roar down the street with a rush of joy. The helmet rests lightly on my head, and my jacket feels like battle armor against the wind. I couldn’t travel any other way, being who I am.
The sun is almost down, splashing red and orange across the piled clouds. The streets are full of cars, windows rolled up against the crisp autumn air, most heading out of the city for the weekend. I dart between them, beyond reckless–I hear more than one pair of tires screech in panic as they skid an inch past my rear wheel. I laugh and speed on.
The streets are narrower here, and the traffic thinned out long ago. No one wants to drive here after dark, even with a heavy metal frame around him. Half the streetlights are cracked and dark, the other half flickering self-consciously. They hug their light shyly, though some share it with bare-legged hookers who shiver in the light to attract work for the darkness. The ones who notice me glare; a pimp calls out an offer as he sees my golden hair and my lean thighs gripping the bike. I disregard them all. That isn’t my line of work, nor could it ever be.
I turn a corner, my bike slowing now as its engine grows whisper-quiet. The flicker of the streetlights follows me like the crackle of lightning, and there’s a taste of tension in the air. He is near–the one destined for me. All that remains is to wait for the right moment.
The streets roar with a sound like thunder as the battle begins. I sit astride my bike unnoticed. The ambush has been planned for weeks, a force amassed and its weapons assembled in secret. Its outcome will change the balance of power in the city, but this does not concern me. My eyes are fixed upon my Chosen.
In most battles the Choice is made in the moment, reflecting valor and skill. Such is the path my sisters will take this night, elsewhere in the city, but not I. I have known of this moment, this warrior, since his birth. I have known what fate the Norns–my other sisters–wove for him, and I have waited. Soon it will be his moment; soon I will Choose.
In a circle of flashing light and wailing sound worthy of the old epics, he crouches above his fallen comrade, thunder roaring from his weapon as he pulls the other man to relative safety. Pinned by crossfire, he holds his position knowing that reinforcements are long, agonizing minutes away. Abandoning his partner might allow him to save himself, but I know this option never occurs to him. Anticipation runs through me as he makes his stand against superior numbers.
His hands are steady as his weapon spits fire, and two of his adversaries depart this plane. I can see them, lost and forlorn on the road to Hel, for they have lived lives of broken oaths and dishonor. I give them no further thought. It is only the bravest we will present to the Allfather, for Ragnarok approaches and the need for warriors is great. Such has been my task, and my sisters’, for centuries; we are the Choosers of the Slain.
A shiver courses through me, and I point, making my Choice. Time slows as he is struck–once, twice, reeling as he continues the fight. His eyes fix on mine as the third bullet tears him from this world; I reach my hand out to him. He wavers, perplexed, as wailing sirens announce his longed-for reinforcements, scattering his remaining foes. Understanding fills his eyes as he looks down at his mortal shell, fallen beside his partner whose life-thread the Norns have not yet cut. Satisfied, he lifts his eyes again to mine and takes my hand.
My sisters join me at last, our Chosen riding behind us as we roar into the night. The sound of our engines lingers in the night air as we grow ever more insubstantial in the world of Midgard, bringing our warriors to their reward in Valhalla.
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© 2009 H.D. Grogan
