Valkyrie | Chooser of the Slain

I wrote the following piece of fiction in response to the Weekly Writing Challenge: Traces, in which we were encouraged to talk about leaving our mark. Interestingly enough, I posted on a similar topic in January. As WWC posts are supposed to be written specifically for the challenge, I have created something new (below).  If you would like to read my non-fiction thoughts on the subject, feel free to visit YOLO or YOLOL | A Post for the New Year.

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Valkyrie | Chooser of the Slain

The Valkyrie's Vigil by Edward Robert Hughes
The Valkyrie’s Vigil by Edward Robert Hughes

With her finger, she traces the engraved letters, one at a time.

The stone feels cold. Cold and hard. And final.

A-R-D-E-N

That’s all. The rest had worn away. It was a long time ago for this world that forgets so quickly. And yet for her…

He was young and strong and strong-willed. She loved him instantly. She watched him for months before he noticed her. And even then, only because she wanted him to. His training was over and he would leave soon for the war. She knew she shouldn’t, but she did it anyway.

He sat alone at the bar, staring into his drink, his right leg shaking anxiously. She’d been studying him long enough to know that he wasn’t worried; he was impatient and excited, but not worried. Like so many others, he was eager for battle, for a chance to make a difference, to give his life for what he believed in.

She, however, had seen too many wars. Not dozens or hundreds, but thousands. Thousands upon thousands. Her heart, drenched and heavy with the blood of a million men, felt light when she looked at him – his dark hair and bronzed skin offset by bright, green eyes. His earthiness, his humanity pulled her toward him.

He started when he saw her. It was as if she had just appeared in the seat next to him. He stared, speechless, at first. Her beauty…it was otherworldly. Golden-red hair tumbled in waves over her bare, fair shoulders and her eyes were the most unusual purple-grey. He felt himself relax into her smile, as if he’d known her all his life.

 “You smell like lavender,” he breathed.

“I…what?” she laughed, almost embarrassed.

“You just…I’m sorry…I just,” He let out a sigh and smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she smiled back.

Three days was all they had. Three days.

Confident and maybe a little naive , as the young so often are, he kissed her tears and promised to come back for her. As he walked away, she let him think he was leaving her. Let him think she’d be there when he returned…if he returned.

Sometime later, he saw her again. She’d been watching, as she was destined to do. In the fighting and the fury, among the gunfire and the screaming, she glided, seeing but unseen. Watching, waiting.  And choosing. She had no choice but to choose.

Just as she brushed her hand over the terrified eyes of a soldier too young to be a man, closing them forever, she heard him. His screams tore into her. His humanity, again, drawing her to him, above him, by his side.

She understood instantly, as her kind always does, that his wounds, while not fatal, were devastating. And so she chose.

He lay on his back, his face waxing pale as the agony began to overwhelm him. But his eyes, darting back and forth, searching the gun-metal sky, glistened green like springtime. He began to call her name.

And then, because she wanted him to, he saw her. His anxious eyes settled on her face and his body slackened. With her fingertips, she brushed the hair away from his face, so he could see her better.  And at her touch, his breathing calmed.

“You…smell like…lavender,” he whispered with a playful smile.

She intended to laugh, but a sob escaped in its place.

“Hey. Don’t cry. It’s OK. See? I promised you I’d come back. And here I am.”

Swallowing her tears, she replied, “And here you are.”

She gazed into his eyes for a long moment before resting a hand on either side of his bloodstained face. She leaned into him and touched her lips to his. They were cold, as she knew they would be.

Photo by Erica
Photo by Erica | Click to view in orginal post

But hers were warm. Warm and soft and gentle and painless and….

…for her, it seems like days, hours even, though more than a hundred years and thousands of battles and countless souls have passed. Yet, she would never forget, could never forget.

She holds the lavender close and, taking a deep breath, fills herself with the earthiness. Then, just as she positions the purple and green flowers beneath his name, she’s gone.

© Nichole Liza Q.

 

Weekly Writing Challenge: Traces

  1. Archive of Comments | Arlen Shahverdyan. Author’s Blog
  2. WEEKLY WRITING CHALLENGE: FADING TRACES AND OLD MEMORIES | SERENDIPITY
  3. Traces | Kansa Muse
  4. Breadcrumbs | Master Of Disaster
  5. The Art of War | K beezy is viral
  6. Wet cement | Margaret Rose Stringer
  7. She was a memory | thinkerscap
  8. Traces: DP Challenge | Lead us from the Unreal to the Real
  9. Arrogance Insults My Intelligence | Bumblepuppies
  10. The Lavender Flowers | Stories From My Mind
  11. Trace | MindMeld
  12. Lavender and Rain | So This Is Writing?
  13. Like Flowers on a Grave | loveletterstoaghost
  14. Day Twenty-Four: Veteran At Death | Clearing My Voice
  15. it’s veterans day | Musings of a Random Mind
  16. Traces of You | UP! With Jesus
  17. Weekly Writing Challenge: Traces [Week 1] | Goss Family Blog
  18. DP Weekly Challenge/Traces: The Things He Left Behind | Between Madness & Euphoria
  19. Weekly Writing Challenge; Traces | terry1954
  20. Remembering You | Lucky Number Devin
  21. Lilac | Momma Said There’d Be Days Like This
  22. My Life in Stuffing, Words, and Paint: Searching for an Identity | The Positivity Project
  23. 12/11 Weekly Writing Challenge: Traces | Family, Photos, Food & Craft
  24. Weekly Writing Challenge: Traces | imaginations
  25. Traces of my soul | મન ની વાત
  26. Gone fishin’ | Thin spiral notebook
  27. in the middle of | y
  28. Ode To Something Great | The Dread Pirate Buttercup
  29. A Chinese Dragon in an English Garden | An Upturned Soul
  30. A Father’s Legacy | A mom’s blog
  31. Traces Left Behind | Rose with Thorns
  32. Traces | Weekly Writing Challenge | A chain of thoughts…
  33. Maybe, just maybe… | mostlytrueramblings
  34. We All Need Band-Aids | Broken Light: A Photography Collective
  35. Weekly Writing Challenge: Traces | Diary of a light worker
  36. The only polite thing to do … | Empressnasigoreng’s Blog
  37. WWC – Traces “A Family Affair” | aliabbasali
  38. The Last Bouquet | Home’s Cool!
  39. Trace. — Souvenirs of His Soul. | mommyverbs
  40. Wooden Spoons | lemon lime follies
  41. The Photogragh | The Crone’s Apprentice
  42. Message From The Flowers | conscientiouseconomist
  43. Traces of Her | 1st Check Off The Bucket List
  44. The mark of our time | Ernest Marlin
  45. Whats a Non-Traditional Meta For? | knappermiester
  46. Traces Left Behind | Perceptive Pot Clueless Kettle
  47. Top 10 for When You’re Pregnant | Fruit Loops & Foie Gras
  48. Traces | Insanitree
  49. My Blog isn’t My Mark | Avoiding Neverlan
  50. Friendly ghosts | LynnSlyWrites
  51. I remember you. (Wed Fiction) | Tales of a slightly stressed Mother!
  52. Summers 13D | Keigh Ahr
  53. The Graveyard Shift | S. J. Paige
  54. A Gift For Someone in Need | A Day in the Life of Anything that Happens to Catch My Interest
  55. Weekly Writing Challenge: Tracing Family | Making Life an Art
  56. Traces| Leaving Your Mark | Words from the heart
  57. Weekly Writing Challenge: Traces | Write Through Life
  58. The Sticks You Left Behind | eternal Domnation
  59. Every mom’s Jean Valjean moment. | jenny’s lark
  60. Evergreen Remembrance | Simply be, simply me
  61. The Mark of Me in Three Words | Mary J Melange
  62. Leaving Traces of Myself | tuckedintoacorner
  63. Riding With Peppers, The Video | A’A IN PARADISE
  64. Love Left Behind | Holoholo Girls
  65. Ligon’s Store | Ron Mayhew’s Blog
  66. Mosaic | Chopstix for Six
  67. Weekly Writing Challenge: Traces | roastbeefandrakija
  68. “Adding to the cabbage patch cause it looks like you swallowed a watermelon…” | Fruit Loops & Foie Gras
  69. Leaving Traces is all About the View | Cassie ~ Jux.ta.pozed
  70. Traces | medicinalmeadows
  71. The Regular | The Human Rights Warrior

A Love We Cannot Fathom

The other morning as I was praying for a friend, these words just poured out onto the pages of my journal. About halfway through, I realized that this message is not just for one particular friend (though it is certainly for you, my dear) but for all of us. Happy Easter, my friends.

What if we just stripped away all the theology, all the questions, all the seeming inconsistencies of life … and just let Jesus love us?

Photo by SweetImagination
Photo by SweetImagination

What if we took a step back from our toil, set down our work and opened our hands. I would like to sit in a chair – perhaps a rocking chair – and rest my tired feet and aching muscles. And then, what if we just sat back with nothing left to do but receive His love?

No need to labor over this or that. Forget about if you’re doing a “good enough” job. Stop fretting over whether you said this right or thought that right. Just stop and let Him love you.

Because His love just is. There is nothing you can do to change it. You can’t increase His love or decrease His love. His love has no limits – past, present or future. His love is perfect, bottomless and complete. God’s love just is.

So what if instead of thinking about love, trying to figure it out, you just sit back, relax and open your heart?

You may say that you don’t get it – this love. You wonder, how can you receive His love when you can’t even fathom it? Here’s the thing: you will never truly be able to fathom the depths of His love because it’s His love… and He is God.

But you can experience His love. You can receive His love.

When you were a child, you didn’t understand or fathom your parents’ love. How could you? An infant, a toddler, a child, a teenager can’t know what it is to love with a parent’s love. They can’t even begin to understand such love.

Oh, but they receive it! Like a dry sponge, they soak in every ounce of love their parents will give them.

And so it is with God. We don’t have to understand His love….we just have to receive it.

He loves us. Whether we love Him or not. His love never changes, never runs out, never gives up. His love for us, for me, for you… just is.

And this love is more faithful, more powerful, more rich and deep and warm and consuming and freeing and nourishing and redeeming and forgiving and compassionate and nurturing and constant

Photo by natasha555
Photo by natasha555

and merciful and gracious and fierce and healing and completely free… than any love we’ve ever known.

His is a love we cannot fathom. But it is a love that is ours.

Let go of your toil. Let go of your work. Let go of your need to figure it all out. Let go of every last shred, every little thread, every tiny cord of control. Let go so that you can open your hands and receive.

Let go. Let go. Let go. And let Him love you. Let Him have you.

He waits. He waits at the gates of your heart for the moment you will turn the lock, pull back the heavy doors and let Him in.

He waits. He longs to give Himself to you. Receive Him. He is yours.

© Nichole Liza Q.

CC Day 16, 17 & 18 – Home is…

The last three days top our list of favorite vacation experiences. We didn’t visit a theme park or tour a big city or marvel at the sights of a national park. We were with family!!! Before Thursday, we hadn’t seen my brother Ryan, his wife, Val or their daughters, Autumn and Hailey, since our family trip to Disney World in March 2009. This was also the first time we’ve ever visited them in Arizona. What a treat it was to see them in the place they call home!

When we arrived in Phoenix, our car’s thermostat read 117 degrees! Ryan and Val informed us that this is monsoon season so the air was a humid. To be honest, at 117 degrees, I am not sure I could tell you anything other than, it was wicked hot! Later that night a local weatherman reported “high humidity” with dew points in the mid 50’s. Well, now I understood! In CT, weathermen don’t usually call “high humidity” until dew points reach the upper 60’s. A dew point of 53? I’m thinking that just means I can be outside for more than 5 minutes without having to slather Vaseline all over my face. The weather is like Ryan has always described it: like opening the oven door. Even the wind blows hot. And I mean, hot!

We stayed at the Sheraton Wild Horse Pass Resort and Spa. Mile points covered two of the nights and we paid for one. This meant three nights in one place – our longest stay of the trip. Upon arrival, Doug upgraded us to a magnificent two room suite (which allowed us to entertain family) with a view of the pools. Yes, pools. This resort boasts five pools, two hot tubs, a water slide, an outdoor café bar and poolside service. We all spent lots of time enjoying the amenities and finding relief from the heat!

I had such fun seeing my “little” brother in his own home, which he and Val have decorated so beautifully. I feel a need to share with you that, in addition to nine- and two-year old daughters, they also house four dogs and a cat! Ryan and Doug find they have much to commiserate about, as men outnumbered by girls, or as they say “living in an ocean of estrogen”. Ryan and Val also graciously allowed us wash about 2 weeks worth of dirty laundry in their washer and dryer! How nice it is to have fresh, clean clothes again!

On our last day, Ryan and his ladies came over for a final swim. As we made our way into the pool area,  we found that the July 4th weekend had transformed our quiet, relaxing, sophisticated resort into something like Spring Break for Adults with Children. The place was a madhouse! Sure, it was nice having someone deliver iced cucumber water to me as I waded in the 3 ½  foot pool. However, dodging splash balls, rubber balls and footballs, (real footballs, mind you, not Nerf balls), children’s feet kicking next to my face and highly intoxicated, stumbling guests, made things a teensy bit chaotic!

For dinner, Ryan and Val took us out for a little local flavor at Joe’s Real BBQ in downtown, historic Gilbert. This counter service restaurant serves down home, comfort food such as spare ribs, chicken, ham, corn, potato salad, cornbread with honey butter, baked potatoes, mac ‘n cheese, homemade root beer, fresh lemonade and a colossal root beer float. You can’t find many, if any, restaurants like this back home. Of all the places we have eaten so far, Joe’s is one my favorites! We finished our night playing a round of Apples to Apples at their home and then saying good-bye. The usual sadness of saying good-bye was eased somewhat by the hope that we will see them all in October at my baby brother, Derek’s wedding.

Arizona was the first place I found myself thinking, “I could live here. This feels like home.” Then I realized that the reason I felt so at home was because I was with family. Being with Ryan, Val and the girls and saying good-bye has made me miss home more than any other time thus far. When we were at Disneyland I met a grandmother who has lived in L.A. all her life; she said she could never leave because her kids live there also. Isn’t that what “home” is all about? Home isn’t a place. Home is loving and being loved. For most of us, that means being with family. For some, it may mean being with your best friend, church body, neighbors or even your pets. I am blessed enough to say that I have all of the above.

As I ponder all this, I can not help but think about a better home, a greater home that calls to each of us. We are all aliens in a foreign land; restless wanderers looking for a place our souls can find peace, security and rest. In a sense, we are all homesick. If this is true, and if being “home” is loving and being loved, then the only place we will ever find genuine rest is in the lap of our Creator ~ the One whose perfect love fills every empty hole, soothes every open wound, heals every scar ~ the One whose love never fails, never wearies, never forgets but passionately endures forever. I love and miss you all and pray that today, wherever you are, your heart is truly at home.

© Nichole Liza Q.

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