Chapter 11 The Tomb of Wings

Night fell over the transformed landscape, stars appearing one by one in a sky that had only hours before been torn apart. I remained where I had collapsed, my stone wings now so heavy that I could barely lift my head. Around me, the world seemed to hold its breath—mortals huddled in their homes, divine beings scattered across unfamiliar realms, all of creation adjusting to the new order that had emerged from chaos.

"Freya," Sigrid's gentle voice broke through my grief. "You cannot stay here."

"Leave me," I whispered, not looking up. "Go back to what remains of Asgard. Salvage what you can."

"I cannot return," she said, kneeling beside me. "The pathways are sealed for now. All of us stranded here must find our way in this new world."

I finally raised my head to look at her. Sigrid's wings were dimmer than before, their glow fading gradually—divine power diminishing in the mortal realm.

"What happens now?" I asked, though I hardly cared for the answer. Without Caelan, the future seemed meaningless.

"The mortals are emerging," she nodded toward the nearby town. "They've seen Valhalla. They'll come to investigate soon."

Indeed, distant lights were moving toward us—flashlights, lanterns, the headlights of vehicles. The human world responding to the impossible that had landed in their midst.

"Help me up," I said suddenly. "I need to find him... or what remains."

Sigrid supported me as I struggled to my feet once more. Each movement was agony, the stone wings threatening to pull me backward with every step. But determination drove me forward, toward the spot where I had last seen Caelan.

The field where Valhalla had landed was transformed—grass crystallized into patterns that spiraled outward from a central point, trees bent permanently away as if frozen in a blast wave. And there, at the epicenter, a perfect circle of ash.

"Caelan," I breathed, my legs giving way again as Sigrid helped me to the edge of the circle.

The ash was fine and silver-white, glinting with an inner light that no earthly cinders possessed. I reached out trembling fingers, touching the soft powder that might be all that remained of the man I loved.

"He saved them all," Sigrid said softly. "The town would have been destroyed completely."

"He always did put others first," I replied, tears falling freely now. "Even in Valhalla, his questions weren't for himself, but for those unjustly excluded."

As my tears fell onto the ash, something strange happened—the droplets didn't darken the powder as water should. Instead, they caused the ash to glow briefly before being absorbed completely. Curious despite my grief, I let more tears fall, watching as each one disappeared into the ash with a tiny flare of light.

"Freya," Sigrid said urgently. "Your wings."

I turned my head as much as my burden would allow, and saw that the stone feathers nearest my shoulders were beginning to crack—hairline fractures spreading across their surface.

"The transformation is accelerating," I said dully. "Soon they'll crumble completely."

"No, look closer," she insisted.

I reached back, touching one of the cracked feathers. Instead of crumbling at my touch, a piece broke off cleanly, revealing not dust, but a small, perfect grave marker—a miniature headstone, each one bearing the name that had been etched into the feather.

"What does it mean?" I whispered.

Before Sigrid could answer, the weight on my back suddenly increased tenfold. I cried out, collapsing forward into the circle of ash as my wings seemed to tear themselves from my body. There was no pain—only a sensation of terrible pressure, then sudden, absolute release.

When I could breathe again, I realized I was lying face-down in the ash, my back lighter than it had been in days. I pushed myself up, turning to see what had happened.

Where my wings had been attached now stood hundreds of tiny gravestones, each one perfectly formed, each bearing the name of a soul I had guided. They had detached from my body completely, arranging themselves in concentric circles that radiated outward from where I had fallen.

"The Wing Tomb," Sigrid breathed in awe. "I thought it was just a legend."

I stared at the impossible cemetery that had emerged from my punishment. "What is happening?"

"When a Valkyrie's wings turn fully to stone," she explained, helping me to my feet, "they become monuments to those she has guided. But I've never seen it happen—it's spoken of only in our oldest texts."

I moved among the tiny gravestones, reading familiar names—heroes, mothers, children, ordinary people who had died with enough courage or virtue to earn their place in Valhalla. My fingers traced their engraved names, memories of each soul flooding back with perfect clarity.

"They're all here," I whispered. "Everyone I ever guided."

As I moved through the memorial, the silver ash began to shift around my feet, swirling upward in gentle spirals. It gathered into a waist-high whirlwind that followed me through the rows of gravestones, growing larger with each step I took.

"Freya," Sigrid called, alarmed. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not doing anything," I replied, watching in fascination as the ash continued to gather.

The whirlwind suddenly expanded, engulfing me completely. I felt no fear—only a strange sense of familiarity, as if I were being embraced by something I should recognize. Within the silver tornado, I began to see faces—hundreds of them, thousands, all souls I had guided, all watching me with expressions ranging from gratitude to accusation.

"I know you," I said to them all. "I remember each of you."

The faces shifted, blurred, reformed. Some smiled, others wept. All seemed to be trying to communicate something urgent.

Then, abruptly, I was elsewhere—standing on the shores of a vast, dark ocean that stretched to infinity. The water was black as night but perfectly still, reflecting stars that existed in no mortal sky. I recognized it immediately from ancient Valkyrie texts.

"The Forgetting Sea," I murmured. "The waters that wash away mortal memories before rebirth."

"You remember your lessons well, Valkyrie."

I turned to find an ancient woman standing beside me, her face lined with countless years, her eyes depthless pools of wisdom.

"Lady Urðr," I said, recognizing the eldest Norn, weaver of fate. "Am I dead?"

"Not yet," she replied with a small smile. "Merely... between. Your wings have fallen away, but your essence remains anchored to both worlds for this moment."

I looked out over the dark waters. "Why am I here?"

"Because you sought truth above all else," she said simply. "And here, at the edge of forgetting, truth is all that remains."

As if summoned by her words, the still surface of the sea began to ripple. Faces appeared in the water—all the souls I had guided, their expressions now clear, unified in purpose.

"They wish to speak with you," Urðr explained. "The souls you guided, who now find themselves adrift between realms after Valhalla's fall."

One by one, the faces rose slightly from the water, forming a vast audience that stretched to the horizon. At their center, a familiar figure emerged further—Erikson the Bold, the warrior whose name had been among the first to turn to stone on my wings.

"Valkyrie Freya," he said, his voice somehow carrying across the impossible gathering. "You who led us to what we thought was eternal glory."

"I led you where I was instructed," I replied, my voice breaking. "I didn't know—"

"We do not blame you," he interrupted gently. "You were as deceived as we were. But now we find ourselves homeless—Valhalla fallen, our place in the cosmos uncertain."

Another soul rose higher—a shield-maiden I had guided centuries ago. "Some of us wish to return to the cycle of rebirth," she said. "Others seek new divine realms. Still others would remain in the mortal world, watching over their descendants."

"What would you have me do?" I asked, spreading my hands helplessly. "I have no power anymore. No wings, no divine authority."

"But you have something greater," said a third soul, an elderly man I remembered dying while protecting his grandchildren. "You have integrity. You sacrificed everything for truth."

"And for love," added another voice—a young woman who had died in childbirth, ensuring her baby lived.

Erikson spoke again, his expression solemn. "We ask only that you remember us, Freya Valkyrheart. Not as numbers in Odin's army, not as pawns in Kara's game, but as the individuals we were. Our stories. Our names."

"I have always remembered," I assured them, tears flowing freely now. "Each of you. Always."

The assembled souls seemed to confer among themselves, their voices a soft murmur like distant waves. Finally, Erikson addressed me again.

"Then we offer you a choice, in return for your faithfulness. The waters of forgetting lie before you. One handful, freely taken, would ease your grief. Would let you forget the one whose loss now tears at your soul."

My heart constricted at the thought of forgetting Caelan—his smile, his courage, his love. "Never," I whispered.

"We thought you might say that," the shield-maiden said with approval. "Then our second offer: speak his name to the waters, and see what fate has befallen him."

Hope flared briefly in my chest, then died. "To know for certain that he is gone would only deepen my pain."

"Perhaps," Erikson conceded. "Or perhaps not. The choice is yours, Valkyrie."

I stared at the dark, still waters, weighing the options. To remain in uncertainty seemed unbearable, yet confirmation of Caelan's death might be worse. Finally, I made my decision.

Kneeling at the water's edge, I whispered, "Caelan Drayce."

The surface of the Forgetting Sea trembled, then parted like a curtain, revealing depths that seemed to go on forever. Within that impossible abyss, a single point of light appeared—small at first, then growing as it rose toward the surface.

"What is happening?" I asked Urðr, who had remained silently watching.

"The sea answers," she replied simply.

The light continued to ascend, taking shape as it approached—a human form, glowing from within. When it finally breached the surface, hovering just above the water, I gasped in recognition.

"Caelan?"

It was him—translucent, ethereal, but unmistakably Caelan. His eyes found mine across the mystical divide.

"Freya," his voice echoed strangely, as if coming from very far away. "I heard you calling."

I reached toward him instinctively, but Urðr gently restrained me. "He exists between states now," she cautioned. "Neither fully dead nor truly alive. The Eye's energy transformed him in ways even the Norns did not foresee."

"Can he return?" I asked desperately.

"That depends," Urðr said, "on what price you are willing to pay."

I didn't hesitate. "Anything."

"If I apologize for guiding you all to a false paradise," I addressed the assembled souls, "would it be enough to bring him back?"

The souls conferred again, their whispers like leaves rustling in a ghostly wind. Finally, Erikson answered.

"It is not about apology, Freya Valkyrheart. It is about choice. Each soul here chose their path—in life, in death, in what comes after. Now you must choose yours."

"And his," added the shield-maiden.

I looked to Caelan's spectral form, still hovering above the dark waters. "What happens if I choose him?"

"You would both return to the mortal world," Urðr explained. "But changed. Limited. Mortal in all ways that matter."

"And these souls?" I asked, gesturing to the vast assembly. "What becomes of them?"

"They will find their own paths," she assured me. "Some to rebirth, some to new divine realms, some to linger as guardians of the mortal world. But they will no longer be bound by false promises or corrupt systems."

I turned back to the sea of faces, feeling the weight of their expectation. "I am sorry," I told them sincerely. "Not for guiding you—that was my honor and privilege—but for not questioning sooner. For accepting too easily what I was told."

"We all accepted too easily," Erikson replied kindly. "But now, we all choose freely."

One by one, the souls began to sink back into the dark waters—not in despair or defeat, but with purpose, with direction. Some nodded to me as they descended, others smiled, a few even saluted. They were moving on, finding their true paths at last.

As the last soul disappeared beneath the surface, only Caelan's glowing form remained, watching me with eyes full of love and patience.

"Choose," Urðr prompted gently.

I stepped to the very edge of the Forgetting Sea, my gaze locked with Caelan's.

"I choose you," I said simply. "In this realm or any other. I choose you."