Chapter 7 The Revolt of the Chosen

The Borderlands stretched before us like an artist's unfinished canvas—landscapes blending into one another with dream-like fluidity. We had been traveling for what felt like days, though time flowed strangely here. Caelan's shoulder had begun to heal, the divine-inflicted wound closing more slowly than a mortal injury would, but healing nonetheless.

My wings had become a burden almost too heavy to bear. Nearly two-thirds of my feathers had transformed to stone now, each one a memorial to a soul I had guided. When we rested, Caelan would sit behind me, gently tracing the names etched into the stone feathers, sometimes asking about them.

"This one," he said, fingers brushing a particularly large feather near my left shoulder blade. "Erikson the Bold. What was his story?"

I smiled at the memory. "A berserker who died protecting a village of strangers. He fought off a dozen raiders single-handedly to give the villagers time to escape. When I came for him, he asked only if the children had survived."

"And had they?"

"Every one," I confirmed. "He died content, knowing that."

Caelan's hand moved to another stone feather. "And this one? Lagertha?"

"A shield-maiden. Brilliant tactician. She fell ensuring her king's retreat from a battle gone wrong." I leaned back against him, drawing comfort from his warmth. "She should have been the ruler, not the one sacrificed."

His arms encircled me carefully. "You remember them all, don't you? Not just their names, but who they were."

"That's a Valkyrie's true purpose," I said softly. "Not just to collect souls, but to witness their final moments, to honor their stories. To ensure they're remembered."

He was quiet for a moment, his breath warm against my neck. "Was I just another name to you? Another soul to guide?"

I turned to face him, wincing at the weight that shifted with me. "Never," I said firmly. "From the moment I saw you on that battlefield, you were different. You looked at me—truly saw me—when most souls see only what they expect to see."

"What did I say to you?" he asked, his eyes searching mine. "When we first met?"

I smiled at the memory. "'Are you death or deliverance?' Those were your first words to me."

"And what did you answer?"

"I said I was neither—that I was merely a guide to what came next." My hand found his, fingers intertwining. "You laughed then. Said that sounded like both death and deliverance wrapped in prettier words."

His thumb traced circles on my palm. "And then I fell in love with my guide."

"And I broke my sacred oath by loving you in return." I leaned forward until our foreheads touched. "I have never regretted it. Not for a moment."

The kiss that followed was gentle yet insistent, a reaffirmation of feelings that had somehow survived death, separation, and divine punishment. His hands cupped my face as if I were something infinitely precious, while mine clutched at his tunic, anchoring myself to him.

When we finally parted, a distant rumble interrupted the moment. The violet sky above us darkened suddenly, clouds forming in unnatural patterns.

"Something's happening," Caelan said, rising to his feet and helping me stand. "Something in the divine realms."

I closed my eyes, reaching out with my remaining Valkyrie senses. What I felt made my blood run cold.

"Valhalla," I whispered, eyes flying open. "There's chaos in Valhalla."

Before Caelan could respond, a shimmering tear appeared in the air before us. Through it stepped a familiar figure—wings slightly ruffled, expression harried.

"Sigrid!" I cried, moving toward her as quickly as my stone-laden wings would allow.

She embraced me briefly, then stepped back to assess my condition, her eyes widening at the extent of my transformation. "By the Norns, Freya, you're worse than I imagined."

"What's happening?" Caelan asked, coming to stand protectively at my side. "Why is the divine realm in turmoil?"

Sigrid's gaze shifted to him, recognition and wariness battling in her expression. "You must be Caelan Drayce. The cause of all this trouble."

"Sigrid," I warned, but Caelan merely inclined his head.

"And you must be the friend who helped Freya steal the Eye of Wisdom," he countered. "Making you equally troublesome, I'd say."

A reluctant smile touched her lips. "Fair enough." Her expression turned serious again. "I don't have much time. The einherjar are in revolt."

"What?" I gasped. "The chosen warriors? Why?"

"It started after you left with the Eye," she explained hurriedly. "At first, just restlessness, warriors becoming irritable, argumentative. Then full-blown fighting broke out in the feasting halls. Now they're challenging the Valkyries directly, demanding answers about selection processes, about their purpose in Valhalla."

Caelan and I exchanged a significant look. "The Eye," he said. "When Freya used it to restore my memories..."

"It must have created a connection," I finished. "Between you and the other warriors you'd been investigating."

Sigrid nodded grimly. "Every warrior you ever questioned, every soul you spoke to about your suspicions—they're all leading the revolt. It's as if your restored memories awakened something in them as well."

"The divine network," I murmured. "All souls in Valhalla are connected through the All-Father's consciousness. When the Eye restored Caelan's memories..."

"It sent ripples through the entire network," Caelan concluded. "They're remembering my questions. My doubts."

"More than that," Sigrid said. "They're acting on them. Warriors who died centuries apart are suddenly united in purpose, demanding to know why certain souls were chosen and others rejected. They're questioning the very foundations of divine judgment."

A strange mix of horror and vindication washed over me. "What of the All-Father? Surely he's intervened?"

"That's just it," Sigrid lowered her voice, though no one else could possibly hear us in this between-realm. "Odin hasn't been seen since the theft was discovered. The high council claims he's in deep meditation, seeking the Eye through mystical means, but rumors say he's actually weakened by its absence."

"And Kara?" Caelan asked, his voice hardening at her name.

"Recalled from the hunt to deal with the uprising. She's instituted martial law in Valhalla—no one in or out, warriors confined to their halls, Valkyries armed and patrolling." Sigrid's wings rustled anxiously. "It's never been like this before. Never."

I sank down onto a nearby rock, the weight of my stone wings suddenly overwhelming. "This is my fault. I never intended to start a rebellion."

"Intentions matter less than truth," Caelan said firmly, kneeling before me. "The warriors aren't revolting because of you—they're revolting because they're finally questioning the 'divine justice' they've been fed. The same questions I began asking a century ago."

Sigrid looked between us, her expression softening. "He's right, Freya. This was inevitable—a system built on selective truths will eventually collapse when those truths are questioned." She hesitated, then added, "There's more. The souls you've guided—they're particularly affected."

I looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Every warrior you personally escorted to Valhalla is experiencing... disturbances. Memories of your guidance, your conversations with them. They say you showed them more compassion, more respect for their individual stories than any other Valkyrie." She gestured to my stone-laden wings. "Each name etched there represents a soul now questioning everything they've been told since arriving in Valhalla."

The implications staggered me. Over centuries, I had guided thousands of souls. If all of them were now in revolt...

"We need to go back," I said suddenly, attempting to stand. "I need to speak to them, to explain—"

"No," both Sigrid and Caelan said in unison.

"You'd be executed on sight," Sigrid continued. "Kara has declared you an enemy of the divine order. She's convinced the high council that you've been corrupted by prolonged exposure to mortal souls."

"Rich accusation, coming from her," Caelan muttered.

"What about you?" I asked Sigrid. "Won't they suspect you for disappearing?"

She smiled grimly. "I'm on an 'urgent mission' to track you down. Officially, I'm following a lead in the mortal realm. I have perhaps an hour before my absence becomes suspicious."

"Then why come at all?" Caelan asked, his tone softening. "Why risk yourself?"

"Because Freya is my oldest friend," she replied simply. "And because I've seen the Eye's revelations for myself." She turned to me. "You left it where we discussed?"

I nodded. "Hidden in the Pool of Reflection, where only someone specifically looking for it would find it."

"Good. I've shown its truths to a select few—Valkyries I trust, who have begun quietly questioning Kara's leadership." Her expression grew determined. "We're building our own resistance within the divine realm."

Hope flickered within me for the first time since we'd fled. "You're not alone in this," I realized.

"Neither are you," she replied. "But you need to keep moving. The Borderlands won't hide you forever. Kara has dispatched hunter squadrons to every realm."

"Where can we go?" I asked, gesturing to my increasingly immobile wings. "I can barely walk, let alone flee."

Sigrid reached into a dimensional pocket and withdrew a small crystal vial containing swirling silver liquid. "This won't stop the transformation, but it will slow it significantly. Enough to buy you time."

"What is it?" Caelan asked suspiciously.

"Essence of Yggdrasil," she replied. "Distilled from the World Tree itself. Extremely rare and technically forbidden for personal use."

I accepted the vial with trembling fingers. "Sigrid, if they discover you took this—"

"Then I'll have far bigger problems than missing tree sap," she finished with a wry smile. "Drink it all. Now."

I uncorked the vial and swallowed the contents in one gulp. The liquid burned like ice and fire simultaneously, spreading through my veins in a wave of painful relief. I gasped, doubling over as the sensation reached my wings.

Caelan supported me, concern etched on his features. "Freya?"

After a moment, the burning subsided. I straightened slowly, testing my wings. The transformation hadn't reversed, but the crushing weight seemed slightly more manageable.

"It's working," I confirmed. "Thank you, Sigrid."

She nodded, already beginning to fade back toward her portal. "Head for the English Coastlands. There's a lighthouse on the northernmost point—an old friend awaits you there. Someone who's been watching the divine realms with interest for centuries."

"Who?" I called as she grew more transparent.

Her smile was enigmatic. "Someone who knows what it means to sacrifice an eye for wisdom."

With those cryptic words, she vanished, the portal sealing behind her.

Caelan and I stood in silence for a moment, processing everything we'd learned. The revolt in Valhalla changed everything—what had begun as a personal quest for justice had erupted into a full-scale rebellion that threatened the very foundations of the divine hierarchy.

"So," he finally said, his hand finding mine, "to the English Coastlands?"

I nodded, a strange mix of dread and determination settling in my chest. "To the lighthouse."

As we set off across the ever-shifting landscape of the Borderlands, I felt the weight of responsibility pressing down almost as heavily as my stone wings. Thousands of souls were in turmoil because of my actions—questioning, rebelling, perhaps even suffering for it.

Yet alongside that weight was something else—a fierce pride in those warriors, those souls I had guided, who were now demanding the truth I had always tried to honor. They were no longer passive recipients of divine judgment but active questioners of divine authority.

Perhaps that, more than anything, made them truly worthy of paradise.

Caelan seemed to sense my thoughts, his hand squeezing mine gently as we walked. "You once guided me to what you believed was salvation," he said quietly. "Now you've guided thousands more to something even more valuable."

"What's that?" I asked.

His smile was both tender and determined. "The courage to question paradise itself."


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