Chapter 14 The Last Valkyrie Letter

Spring blossomed into summer, painting our little corner of the coast with wildflowers and long, golden evenings. The cottage had transformed with the seasons—Caelan's presence filling empty spaces I hadn't even recognized as empty. Bookshelves now overflowed with volumes he devoured insatiably, making up for centuries of limited access to human knowledge. The garden expanded under his careful attention, vegetables and herbs thriving in neat rows.

I watched him from the kitchen window as he worked the soil, still marveling at the miracle of his return. Three months had passed since he had materialized in Valhalla, and each day I discovered new aspects of this mortal life we were building together.

"You're staring again," he called without looking up, somehow sensing my gaze.

"It's my favorite hobby," I replied, smiling as he turned to me with earth-stained hands and sunlight in his hair.

He approached the window, leaning in for a quick kiss. "Any word from Sigrid?"

"Not yet. The delegation from Asgard was supposed to arrive this morning." I tried to keep my tone casual, though we both knew how significant this meeting was.

Since Valhalla's fall, the barriers between realms had stabilized into what scientists called "permeable membranes"—still separate worlds, but with established points of contact. Diplomatic relations were being established between Earth governments and various divine realms, with Asgard being among the most prominent.

"She'll let us know as soon as there's news," Caelan assured me, reaching through the window to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Try not to worry."

Easy for him to say. The delegation from Asgard was being led by none other than Ella, the Keeper of Records, now serving as ambassador to the mortal realm. And she had specifically requested a meeting with me—the first formal contact I'd had with my former home since my wings had turned to stone.

The sound of tires on our gravel driveway interrupted my thoughts.

"That's probably her now," Caelan said, wiping his hands on a cloth. "I'll go clean up."

I nodded, taking a deep breath to steady myself. Whatever news Sigrid brought, whatever Ella wanted, I would face it with the same courage that had seen me through the loss of my wings, the fall of Valhalla, and the long months of waiting for Caelan's return.

The front door opened without a knock—Sigrid had never quite adapted to human customs regarding personal space—and her familiar voice called out, "Anyone home in this quaint mortal dwelling?"

I smiled despite my nervousness. "In the kitchen!"

She appeared in the doorway, looking surprisingly formal in a tailored suit, her once-divine beauty now tempered with human subtlety but no less striking. Behind her stood a tall, elegant woman with silver hair caught in an intricate braid—Ella, the Keeper of Records, now dressed in modern diplomatic attire but still carrying the ethereal quality of a divine being.

"Freya Valkyrheart," Ella greeted me, inclining her head slightly. "It has been some time."

"Just Freya now," I corrected gently. "The Valkyrheart title doesn't quite fit anymore."

"Names have power," she replied with a small smile. "Even those we set aside."

I gestured for them to sit at our kitchen table, a weathered oak piece Caelan had restored himself. "Would you like tea? Coffee?"

"Nothing, thank you," Ella said, settling gracefully onto a chair. "My time here is limited, and we have much to discuss."

Sigrid caught my eye with a look that said she had no idea what this was about either. She took the seat beside Ella, while I sat across from them, feeling strangely like I was facing a tribunal once again.

"How is Asgard?" I asked, deciding to begin with the simplest question.

"Transformed," Ella answered directly. "As all the realms have been. The hierarchies have shifted, new alliances formed. Kara stands trial for her corruption of the selection process. Many Valkyries have chosen to serve in different capacities, no longer bound to their traditional roles."

"And the All-Father?"

A flicker of something—amusement? respect?—passed across Ella's ageless features. "Odin continues his recovery. The Eye's shattering diminished him greatly, but he adapts. He sends his regards, by the way."

Caelan entered then, hair damp from a quick shower, wearing simple jeans and a linen shirt. His presence immediately shifted the energy in the room—a reminder that whatever divine politics were at play, our mortal life was the priority now.

"Ambassador," he greeted Ella with a respectful nod before taking the seat beside me, his hand finding mine under the table.

"Caelan Drayce," she acknowledged. "Your return was... unexpected. Even to those of us who keep the records of all possibilities."

"I'm full of surprises," he replied with a hint of his old warrior's confidence.

Ella studied us both for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she reached into an elegant leather portfolio and withdrew a sealed envelope—not modern paper, but something that appeared ancient, made of a material I recognized immediately.

"Wing parchment," I whispered, staring at the envelope. "Made from a Valkyrie's molted feather."

"Indeed," Ella confirmed. "The last one you shed before your transformation began. It was preserved in the archives, awaiting its purpose."

She slid the envelope across the table toward me. "I am here as messenger, not ambassador, in this moment. This comes from Arturia, formerly known as Valkyrie Sigrid's trainee, now elevated to Record Keeper Second Class."

Sigrid leaned forward, surprise evident in her expression. "Little Arturia? The one who could barely lift her ceremonial spear?"

"The same," Ella said with a nod. "She has grown considerably in capability since the restructuring. She oversees the newly established Bureau of Interdimensional Communication and asked me to deliver this personally."

I took the envelope carefully. My name was inscribed on it in runes that glowed faintly at my touch. "What is it?"

"A response," Ella said simply. "To a letter you never sent, but perhaps should have."

Confusion must have shown on my face, because she continued, "The fall of Valhalla created many anomalies, Freya. Time flows differently between realms now. Things that have not yet happened here may have already occurred elsewhere, and vice versa. Open it when you're ready."

She rose smoothly to her feet. "I have diplomatic meetings to attend. Sigrid can brief you on the official developments. This—" she gestured to the envelope, "—is personal."

With that cryptic statement, she turned to leave, pausing only briefly at the door. "The warriors ask about you, Freya. Those who remember being guided by your hand. They wish to know if you are well."

"I am," I said, surprised by the emotion that swelled in my chest. "Please tell them that."

"I will." A smile touched her lips. "Though many of them already know. The Wing Tomb sees to that."

Before I could ask what she meant, she was gone, leaving Sigrid to explain.

"The gravestones from your wings," Sigrid said, answering my unspoken question. "They've become a kind of... connection point. The warriors whose names are etched there can sense your general well-being through them. It's something new, something that wasn't in the old texts."

"Like everything else these days," Caelan observed, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand.

Sigrid spent the next hour updating us on the official news—diplomatic protocols established between Earth and Asgard, research findings about the nature of the dimensional merging, statistics on how many warriors had materialized and how they were adapting. Throughout, the envelope sat untouched before me, its presence a weight I wasn't yet ready to address.

Finally, as afternoon stretched toward evening, Sigrid stood to leave. "I should get back. They'll be expecting a report."

"Of course," I said, walking her to the door. "Thank you for coming, Sig. For everything."

She embraced me tightly. "Read the letter," she whispered in my ear. "Whatever it is, it matters."

After she left, I returned to the kitchen to find Caelan still seated at the table, the envelope untouched before him, his expression thoughtful.

"Aren't you curious?" I asked, retaking my seat.

"Desperately," he admitted with a small smile. "But it's addressed to you, not us."

I appreciated his respect for my privacy, but shook my head. "There are no more secrets between us. Whatever this is, we face it together."

With that, I broke the seal on the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of the same wing parchment, covered in elegant script that shimmered with a faint silver light.

"Read it aloud?" Caelan suggested quietly.

I nodded, cleared my throat, and began:

*"To Freya, once Valkyrie, now something greater,*

*I write this knowing you will receive it long before I pen it—one of the many paradoxes our new existence embraces. The merging of realms has created ripples in time as well as space, allowing this impossible correspondence.*

*You don't know me yet, though you will. I am Erika, daughter of Erikson the Bold, born in the shadow of what mortals now call the Divine Hall—the structure that was once Valhalla, now a permanent fixture of the mortal realm and a center for interdimensional cooperation.*

*I write because you asked me to. Twenty years from when you receive this letter, you will entrust me with a message to be sent backward through the temporal fold. A letter you never wrote, but whose contents I now convey:*

*'Dear Ella,*

*If you're reading this, the temporal experiment worked, and my words are reaching back across decades. There is so much I wish to tell you—about the life Caelan and I have built, about the community of former warriors and Valkyries that has grown around us, about the children who now play in the shadow of Valhalla without fear or awe.*

*But most importantly, I want you to know that I have found peace. The wings I lost were a fair price for the truth I gained. I have never regretted choosing love over duty, humanity over divinity, complicated freedom over perfect servitude.*

*I've watched former warriors build new lives, start families, create art, and heal old wounds. I've seen former Valkyries discover purposes beyond guiding souls—teaching, healing, building bridges between worlds that once seemed impossibly separated.*

*Caelan and I have grown old together, something neither of us ever expected to experience. Each line on our faces, each gray hair, each aching joint is a gift—a marker of time truly lived, not merely existed through. We will die someday, as all mortals must, but we have LIVED, Ella. Truly lived.*

*I write not to boast of happiness, but to offer reassurance to those who might follow similar paths. The divine realms are restructuring, I know. Many will face choices similar to mine. Tell them this: love, freely chosen, is never a poor exchange for immortality. A single lifetime fully embraced outweighs centuries of hollow service.*

*I am not sorry for what I did. I am not sorry for who I became. I would choose this path again, a thousand times over.*

*I was never meant to be an eternal servant of divine will. I was meant to be a woman who loved fiercely enough to challenge heaven itself.*

*With gratitude for all that was, and all that will be,*

*Freya (who was once Sylvi, who was once a Valkyrie, who is now simply herself)'*

*I deliver these words to you now, though you have not yet lived the life that inspired them. Consider it a gift—a glimpse of the happiness that awaits you, a reassurance that the path you've chosen leads to no regrets.*

*The Wing Tomb still stands, transformed now into a memorial garden where the descendants of those you guided come to honor their ancestors. Your name is spoken with reverence, not as a divine being, but as a woman who chose truth when it would have been easier to accept comfortable lies.*

*May this knowledge bring you peace in moments of doubt.*

*With respect and gratitude,*
*Erika, Daughter of Erikson*
*Interdimensional Correspondent*
*Year 2043"*

My voice faltered on the final date—twenty years in our future. I looked up to find Caelan watching me, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"We grow old together," he said softly, wonder in his voice. "We actually get to grow old together."

The simple miracle of that statement—something immortals never experienced, something we had never dared hope for—struck me with its profound ordinariness. Gray hair. Wrinkles. Aching joints. The slow, gentle decline of mortal bodies that had lived fully and well.

"And we build something," I added, running my finger over the parchment. "A community. A purpose."

Caelan reached across the table, taking both my hands in his. "Are you surprised?"

I considered the question carefully, thinking about the months since his return, the life we had already begun creating. The warriors who came to us for guidance in adjusting to modern life. The small gatherings that had started happening at our cottage—former divine beings and materialized warriors finding common ground in their new humanity.

"No," I finally answered. "I'm not surprised. I'm... reassured."

He smiled, that smile that had first captured my heart centuries ago on a blood-soaked battlefield. "So am I."

Later that evening, as the sun set over the ocean, we sat on our small porch, Caelan's arm around my shoulders, my head resting against him. The letter lay on my lap, its impossible existence a reminder of how fluid time and reality had become in this new world.

"Do you think we should try to change anything?" Caelan asked thoughtfully. "Now that we have a glimpse of our future?"

I considered this, watching as the first stars appeared above the darkening water. "No," I decided. "Whatever path leads to that letter—to growing old together, to building something meaningful from the ashes of divine order—that's the path I want to walk. Exactly as it unfolds."

He pressed a kiss to my temple. "Even the aching joints?"

I laughed, turning to face him. "Even those. Every mortal moment with you is worth a thousand immortal years without you."

As twilight deepened around us, I thought about the woman I had been—Valkyrie, guide, servant of divine will—and the woman I was becoming—mortal, partner, architect of her own destiny. The exchange seemed more than fair.

The Wing Tomb might stand as a memorial to my divine past, but this small cottage by the sea, this life with Caelan, this was my true monument—not built of stone and memory, but of love and choice and the quiet courage to embrace humanity in all its brief, beautiful fragility.