It began with blood.

The blood of her father, and of her people. A long and bloody war ended with treachery and deception, a war that left the Vanir subjects of Asgard. Her proud people were forced to kneel before their false king, to swear allegiance to a vengeful and cruel ruler. They were but a peaceful people, gifted with foresight and gentle hearts, and it was perhaps that nature that cost them the war.

She did not have a gentle heart.

She was brought to their land in chains, borne upon a chariot for all to see her shame, her brother stood at my side, his head bowed in humble submission.

Her head would never bow.

She might have been brought to their land in chains, they may let her live as their captured princess, in borrowed silks and sparkling jewels, but she will never lay compliant. She will leave this land the jailer and they will quake underneath her glare.

She will never be the pretty face they require, nor the marriage they see to solidify their claim to her land. She will never forget the blood they spilt to soak the her home, nor the sting of loss, nor the unspeakable horror as she watched Odin lift her father's severed head high for all to see. Or the cheers that followed from the residents of Asgard. She will not forget the sting of her shackles that prevented her from doing something, anything, that even as she strained they kept her from both the physical and magical retribution she sought. That she pushed anyway until her wrists broke under the force.

For she is Valfreya, princess and rightful ruler of Vanaheim, and this her solemn oath.

She entered the hall still shackled. Her actions had not gone unnoticed at the Triumph. Freyr walked next to me, free of his bonds. He was not a threat to them, nor truly to anyone. They had given him a castle in Alfheim where he was to serve as an ambassador to the Light Elves, though this was mere convenience for Odin, for he had stripped her brother of all previous titles and holdings.

However, he could not dispose of him in the way he had their father. Freyr was too well liked, even in Asgard. Exile suited him far better.

Today would be the last she saw of him.

"Everything will be fine, sister. We will be together soon enough. You will see," he said in a low voice so that the guards surrounding them could not hear. Freya looked up at him, her voice caught in her throat. She had never so much as spent a day without him. He was her brother, her twin, always looking out for her from the morning he was born. And now she was to be left, the younger without the elder, in the land of their captors.

He put a hand around her shoulders, his touch momentarily freeing her from her fears. She closed her eyes, memorizing the feeling before it too was taken away.

The moment ended far too soon as they were pulled to a stop. They were in the great hall now, the tables overflowing with food and drink, its occupants deafeningly making merry. It made Freya ill. Freyr was led to the far end of the high table and sat among Odin's ministers. She was pushed into an empty seat between the two princes of Asgard, one golden the other raven haired. She sat without a word, looking at neither one of them.

She knew why she was seated here. She knew why she wasn't being sent to Alfheim with her brother, to live out her days a figurehead in the land of the Elves.

She was a pawn that's usefulness had yet to cease. Now that her brother had been stripped publicly of his position and holdings, she remained the only heir to Vanaheim's throne. A very marry-able heir.

"Your loveliness knows no words, Princess," the blonde prince offered.

"Words must be hard to come by as they are not so easily stolen," Freya replied, staring at her plate. The prince seemed genuinely hurt by the sentiment.

"We wish you only happiness here, Princess. Surely-"

"If you wished me happiness, you would not have taken me from my home and killed my father."

"I-"

But the prince had nothing to say to that. What could he?

She sat for the rest of the meal in silence, touching nothing. Every so often the other prince would glance her way, but he would quickly turn and focus on something else when she caught him. She found him to be rather the more agreeable of the two.

Her wrists ached in their shackles, swollen and purple. Even if she had desired to eat, Freya suspected they would not even hold a knife. The manacles stopped her from doing anything to heal them, halting the flow of my magic.

At the end of the feast her chair was pulled back, startling her as a guard took hold of both of her arms. Across the table she could see the same thing happening to Freyr, and he was led towards the doors.

"Freyr!" she screamed, fighting against the guard. "Freyr-"

"Be good, sweet sister and farewell!" he called back as the doors slammed shut. All volition seemed to leave her then, and she sunk to her knees, held up only by the guard. Freya could feel the tears welling up behind her eyes. She did nothing to stop them from rolling down her cheeks. She looked back up at the table and found Odin, her rage flaring once more.

"Will you take away everything I love?" she cried, and she was proud her voice did not shake.

"Take her," he said by way of response and the guard pulled her towards a second set of doors and away from the hall.

Freya stood on the balcony of her new chambers, staring out into the night. Beneath her feet shattered glass crunched. They had still yet to remove her shackles. She had beat her way through the door, for she had been right; her hands could bear nothing, not even the turn of a handle. They now ran slick with blood, dumb tools at the ends of her arms.

Flickering lights illuminated the city below her. The sounds of music floated up, sending another wave of sickness through her. They were singing- rejoicing- at the death of her people, the ruination of her kingdom.

"Princess?"

Freya whipped around, her hands flying out in front of her. It was one of Asgard's princes, the raven-haired, silent one. He looked at her with sad green eyes, his brows furrowed in a look of concern.

"It seems to me that Odin has a habit of collecting the orphans he has made," she said as she surveyed the prince. There was something that seemed to reek of winter about him and she felt her mind rush to somewhere in the future where he would find his own face foreign to him, but she pushed it back. Why should she care what the future held for a prince of Asgard?

"Pardon me, I do not understand."

"Forget I said anything," Freya muttered, turning back to the sky. Not even it remained the same here, its constellations rearranged, it's color more black than deep blue. She could hear him moving behind her but didn't turn.

"I noticed your wrists," he said finally. Freya turned to stare once more at him, her face devoid of emotion. He looked uncomfortable. "It was cruel, what my father did to you- more than cruel. I am so very sorry."

He moved closer to her, his hands outstretched. Freya stood her ground, even as his hands came to cradle her own. His hands were cool to the touch, but not unpleasant.

She could feel a rush of magic soar into her hands, feel her broken bones knit back together and her bruises subside. Then, in a second wave of magic, her shackles fell to the floor with a loud clang.

"You have magic?" she asked, momentarily taken aback. Magic was not common among the Aesir as it was in Vanaheim. He looked at her, his expression changing to one of sarcasm.

"No, why would you think that?"

"Why did you help me?" she asked, suddenly suspicious.

"Because I think that we could be friends."

"I do not have a good record in the practice."

"Still, you do not have to be alone. I've heard about you. I believe we have more in common than you think."

"What is your price then, o Prince?" Freya asked mockingly. Everything had one, she had learned. "Of what use am I to a great prince of Asgard?"

He looked slightly taken aback. Perhaps he had meant it sincerely. She wasn't sure that made a difference. But then he answered, his face set.

"I require your company tomorrow."

The fields were burning.

Freya could see the flames rising from the window, could taste the smoke as it choked her. She felt helpless, locked in the tower like some frail princess of Midgard, dependent on a prince to rescue her from the destruction below.

She was no such princess. She made for the bookcase closest to the window, the one that concealed the secret set of stairs only she and Freyr knew about.

There was a great clattering behind her. She whirled round as the door behind flew open and Freyr was thrown into the room. He was clad in full armor. It gleamed oddly in the light of the fires, half silver, half gold. He righted himself, just in time to see a horde of Asgardian warriors spill into the room.

He pulled his sword from his sheath, preparing to give her time to run, she realized. She stood frozen, her chest heaving with anger as they attacked.

"Duck you fool," Freya called, her own white gold armor clinking as she threw out her arm. Freyr threw himself to the ground and covered his head. A blast of nearly invisible energy shot from Freya's palm, causing the warriors to tumble over like dominos, some dead, some unconscious.

Freyr rose and turned to her. She could see a cut bleeding freely from underneath his eye. "Go now!" he called, motioning towards the hidden stairs. "They can't find you. You have to hide—"

"I won't," she spat stubbornly, her face twisted into a scowl. "Vanaheim is burning— Our people are burning—"

"And what will happen if the Aesir get hold of you? They've no idea what you're capable of, imagine the uses they will find for you if they see—"

"I will not stand as my people die, not when I could prevent it."

She turned on her heel, ignoring protests form Freyr, and pulled open the secret stair case. Instead of climbing as Freyr had ordered she descended, pulling her helm over her face.

The base of the stairway led out into the castle's entryway. Iron clashed against iron, screams tore at the stone ceiling, begging for release.

Freya stooped at the side of one of her fallen guards. An Asgardian spear had pierced through his breast plate, leaving him in a pool of his own blood. Freya pulled his sword from his grasp. His hand was still warm.

"Sleep well, and rejoice in the fields of Folkvagnr," she whispered before throwing herself into battle.

The great hall looked like Náir. Corpses from both sides littered the floor as the fight raged on. In the pandemonium, no one noticed her entry.

She let the magic engulf her, blur her appearance enough so that she was able to slip behind the Asgardian line, disguised as one of them. She summoned the power into her hands, letting the disguise slip from her features.

She blasted the ranks ahead of her, leaving them broken and bloody on the stone floor. Footsteps sounded from behind her and Freya turned, drawing her own sword so she held one in each hand. She parried the oncoming blow from one of the soldiers with her swords, throwing him back. With a second, brutal stab she thrust it through his eye, letting him drop like a doll.

A second horde rushed at her and she hurled the guard's sword. It slipped between one of the Asgardian's helm and breast plate, nearly decapitating him. This left her free to wipe the rest out with another surge of energy.

"Valia!" Freyr called from behind her. She turned at the sound of his voice. She felt the weight of a blow hit her from behind and skewered her assailant without turning around. She felt hope rising in her for the first time.

She did not look behind her.

The second blow hit her in the helm, sending her ears ringing. She fell to her knees, tasting blood in her mouth. Before she could muster the strength to fight back, the blackness overtook her.

Freya was brought before the Allfather, bruised and bloody and full of rage. They had stripped her of her armor, clothed her instead in some red silk dress, no doubt in order to hide the blood. She was unsure if it was hers or theirs.

Her hands were bound in shackle, ones which she knew prevented her from using any sort of magic. She knew because she'd tried, over and over, until she was thrown down on all fours in front of Odin.

"The Necromancer, Allfather," snarled one of the guards.

Freya spat at Odin's feet. "I hope on of your infernal ravens tears out your other eye, old man."

Freyr always counseled her against such rash behavior. If only she had listened. Odin surveyed her, impassive.

"Get her up. Sound the horns," Odin said as he rose. Freya was yanked to her feet forced to follow behind as Odin strode from the tent.

"The Vanir will never stop fighting, not when they still have hope. It's time to take that hope away," Odin said as he walked.

"Never— You'll never be able to stop them, not while my father stands against you."

"Precisely," he said, coming to a halt.

"Njord!" Odin called, the fields of battle suddenly silent. "It is time to end this war. I charge your daughter's life for your surrender."

The guards led her roughly towards the gates. She bit and screamed but it did little to impede them. She could hear the war horns overhead, their cries shaking the ground. They threw her down in front of the pyre, fastening her hands to the great wooden stake.

Odin appeared behind her, his voice echoing upward, to where she could see her father emerging, battle-worn and bloodstained from the tower balcony. Freya could see the shock, the fear as he saw her there, could hear murmuring run through the crowd as unease settled among them.

He disappeared, back inside the tower. A clamoring arose from the far side of the battle field, from inside the halls of our castle. Father appeared, looking horrified, Freyr close behind.

"Don't Father!" she cried, throwing herself forward, against the chains her captors held. "I'd die a thousand times if it meant Vanaheim would be free!"

"No-" Njord called, watching in horror as one of the guards handed Odin a torch. "Valfreya!"

He ran to the gates, blocked by Asgardians. He threw down his glove, challenging him. Odin stepped forward, wielding his sword. Freya struggled against her bonds, eyes glued to the battle before her.

It was over far too soon. Her father was old, no longer the warrior he had been. He stooped, far too slow, and Odin beheaded him, raising his head up for all to see. The crowd behind him cheered, even as the Vanir before then fell to their knees, wailing to the heavens. She could not see Odin's face. Freya screamed, still fighting against her bonds, but there was nothing, no magic she could perform that would bring him back.

Freya woke, breathing heavily. Tears clung to her lashes. She looked up at the ceiling above her, still shrouded by night.

She flipped her wrists over, staring at them. They were healed and unbound, with no remnant of the trauma they had suffered.

She wished it had only been a nightmare.