The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Angel Stone

In the fen, not too far from the outskirts of the tiny hamlet, is a lump of broken sandstone known as the Angel Stone. No one knows where the name came from, not really. Actually there are rumors, as old as the hills themselves, that the stone once looked remarkably like a lovely woman, naked, kneeling, bowing her head in sorrow, with great bird wings folded against her back.

Amateur and not-so-amateur geologists have examined the stone and all agreed that it must have been brought in from elsewhere. It’s not that stony outcroppings are unusual in this part of England. Dark, stony tors dot the fens, marshes, meadows, and hillsides of the surrounding countryside. However, those rocks are mostly ancient volcanic byproducts—granite, or basalt, or some other type of hard rock, hardy enough to withstand the brutal winds and rains that assault this land. This fragile, soft, easily weathered rock could never have come to this place and time by natural geological processes and still survived to the present day.

The best of the not-so-amateurs, a professor from nearby Middlebrough, believed that if the rock were once a life-size sculpture of a winged woman then it must have been brought to this place not more than 900 years ago.

“And likely,” he would say, often over a generously-provided pint, “somewhat more recently than that.”

“Of course,” he would immediately follow up, “that would be if you believe that ridiculous story.”

Indeed. Why would a medieval sculptor—one talented enough to carve such a recognizable life-size figure—choose a medium of expression as fragile and impermanent as sandstone? And then why—for the love of Mike!—would he then transport it to a place where the weather were most unkind to soft rock?

Well, that is pretty far-fetched, isn’t it?

Help Wanted

A different time. A different place. A place outside of time.

The water from the well had been mixed with the white clay, and poured out to nourish the roots. The World Tree—Great Yggdrasil—was renewed for another year, another decade, another century. Who could tell? Who knew the difference really? Time flowed so unevenly here. For the Norns—Urdr, Verthandi, and Skuld, and all their kit and kin, those who lived in the shadow of the World Tree, those who lived in this place that was not a place—there were events. But between the events was only timeless time: waiting, pondering, spinning, weaving, cutting, maintaining and growing the Great Weave of humanity under the shade of Yggdrasil.

But for centuries their jobs had been getting harder and harder. In particular Skuld was often overwhelmed. She was responsible for predicting and directing the future direction of the Great Weave, to avoid tangles and unraveling, to keep the way of the future smooth. But humanity was growing ever more complicated.

Civilizations arose and fell. Swelling populations of humans bumped up against each other in unpredictable ways. She was forced to spend more and more of her time away from Home, away from her fellow Nornir, away from the source of her strength. She was out among the mortals, shaping events, making and destroying kingdoms, managing the Great Weave from the mortal realm. It was taxing. It was draining. It was stultifying. She even grew to fear that she would begin to lose her broad perspective from having to spend so much of her time “on the ground”, “in the field”. It was a real problem.

Her sisters, her daughters, her nieces and cousins, they all asked how they could help, but all the Nornir were just as vulnerable as she to the horrible weakness and ennui that washed over them when they were forced to leave Yggdrasil. Eventually it was her eldest sister Urdr who came up with the solution. “My poor dear Sister,” she said, “You must find trustworthy vessels among the humans. Vessels to whom you can delegate this dirty work, this draining, distracting, tiring chore.”

“But how?” complained exhausted Skuld, “What could make them willing to do what must be done?”

“Offer them freedom, but require them to obey you,” said the older Norn, “Offer them eternity, but divorce them from their peoples. Offer them power, but use that power to bind them to you under a holy geas. There are humans everywhere who are dissatisfied with their lot. In fact, women the world over chafe at the tyranny of their men. Not all women, or all men, but it should not be hard to find suitable women in any culture you choose. Find the frustrated leaders that are shorn of power. And offer them power beyond mortal ken.“

“You are wise, dear Sister,” said Skuld, “It will be as you say.” And thus the Goddess who plans the future of humanity began to plan her own future. She began to manage the delegation of her power.

Deliverance

My story begins here.

I had long wondered how the gods had conspired to bring women, myself in particular, to the low estate in which we were held in the world. I was soon to reach the age at which my father would sell me off to a likely suitor. I was a virtuous woman, but that counted for little, as it was the minimum expectation of Brahmin society. My lot would be truly hopeless were I not virtuous, but then again I would likely have been cast out already were that the case.

I was born into a wealthy, pious family, which counted for much more. Although it hardly guaranteed me a life of comfort, it would attract richer suitors. This would increase the odds at least that my husband would want me well-kept—as evidence of his own wealth. Of course, not all men saw it that way. I had heard rumors that the sons of the wealthy were also more cruel to their wives because of their own spoiled and pampered upbringing. I certainly knew that my own brothers were not the type of kind and gentle men for whom I hoped.

My standing, my family, it was not enough. My hopes hinged on my lovely form, figure, and face. I had to live up to my name—Mohini—prettiest one. Truth to tell, I was gifted with great beauty, for which I thanked the gods daily. With my looks I hoped to attract a man not only rich, but devout. A man dedicated to his Dharma—his goodness—as well as his Artha—his wealth. Yes, of course, such a man would be more likely a kind master to his wife... his slave. But more importantly, he would feel assured enough of his place on the wheel of death and rebirth to risk seeking to provide for his Kama—his pleasure. That would be where I would come in. The man I would serve—the man I would feed... and clean up after... and haul water for... and bathe... and attire, the man who would fill me with children—that man would use me to see to his pleasure, to help him achieve his Kama. And hence my place would be secure, and I would be treated well.

Even as I dreamed of this fantasy life, though, I despaired. I knew there was no way to bring about this happy outcome on my own. I could only make myself as pleasing as possible. But even this could be futile. I had seen with my older sisters that even great loveliness could attract the wrong suitors as well as the right suitors. And Father, though well-meaning, had proven that he would favor a cruel man with a riches to offer over a good man with a more modest estate.

It drove me mad. Why did a woman’s life have to depend on so many things that were outside her control? Why couldn’t a woman seek her fortune the way a man did? Why did a woman have to stand passively by and wait to have her fate thrust upon her? It was so unfair!

Suddenly a bright light filled my chamber. A woman floated in the air before me. A woman like none I had ever seen before. Her skin was pale. Paler than the sands on the beach, paler than the palms of my hands, paler even than the wood at the heart of a tree, pale almost as the clouds or the face of the moon. Her black hair, even darker than my own, made her pale white skin stand out all the more in contrast. Even her eyes were pale, and blue as the sky on a fair and sunny day. It seemed that she could hardly be human, yet she had the form of a woman.

Her body was like the full and buxom bodies depicted often by the great artists, undeniably desirable, yet impossible in real life. Her face looked young, almost as a child, if one could judge the age of so strange a form. And yet those unnaturally-colored eyes seemed to contain ages of wisdom, enough to make even my grandmother seem a child. Was this a Goddess? A Demon? Whatever she was, she had my full and undivided attention.

She spoke, and though her words were strange and foreign, with odd, twisted sounds, I somehow understood her completely.

“Mohini, you do not have to live this life, powerless and afraid, at the mercy of the arbitrary whims of Masters you did not choose. Come with me. I will give you power, magic beyond your wildest dreams, and a life that never ends. You will serve the Goddesses who shape the fate of millions. Choose wisely, Mohini. Come with me and live forever. Come with me and escape the Wheel of Rebirth. Come with me learn power beyond the dreams of kings. Come with me and become the shaper of fates. Or stay and let your father be the shaper of your fate. What say you, child of the Brahmin? Choose wisely, but choose now!”

I was shocked. How could I leave behind everything I knew? “Who are you?” I whispered, my voice quivering in awe.

The woman smiled, “I am Skuld of the Nornir. I would guide you in your new life. Teach you. Help you. Lead you. I and my kin are Goddesses charged with managing the fate of all humankind. Would you join us? Would you help us in our mission?”

A Goddess! But this was like no Goddess of which I had ever heard. Yes, she was strange and fey. But where were her holy aspects? She had only two arms! Only two eyes! Was she truly above the endless Wheel? If so, where were her animal parts: her tiger stripes, her goat’s beard, her elephant’s nose? But the power was beyond doubt! Here was this “Skuld”, in a glowing nimbus, floating above the ground! And the promise of the gift of power, it was beyond imagining!

I wanted the power that this Goddess offered. I wanted to escape the impotence, the vulnerability of a woman’s life. I wanted to live forever. I wanted to mold fates rather than live as the one helplessly molded. My heart full of fear and yearning, ready to burst, I nodded my head, and began my adventure.

Meet and Greet

The next thing that I knew I was floating. Floating in front of the largest tree I had ever seen in my life. At first I was alone but as timeless time passed more women joined me in a circle around the tree.

They were the strangest women I had ever seen in my life. Tall, short, pale as Skuld, black as the darkest midnight, straight-haired, curly-haired—the very darkest one had curls tighter that the curliest lamb’s wool—hair colors and eye colors I could never have imagined. Eventually there were nine of us altogether, all floating above the ground, hands at sides, straight and tall.

The tree was so thick that I should only have been able to see one or two of the other women on each side of me, but somehow I was able to see them all. Clearly the promised magic was already at work.

And then Skuld appeared in our midst. I blinked, and blinked again. This was too much. To all appearances the Goddess was floating in the center of the tree. And yet I beheld her without failing to see the solid tree surrounding her. Unbelievable!

Eyes closed, legs folded, Skuld seemed to be meditating. Seconds passed...years passed...it all seemed the same, until, finally, Skuld opened her eyes. And at that moment nothing else existed—not the ground, not the sky, not the giant tree, not the other girls—just those blue, blue eyes and that mesmerizing voice.

“Kneel before me, Mohini of the Brahmin.”

Kneel? I’m suspended in midair! But nonetheless I folded my legs under me and brought my head to rest on my open palms.

“Swear before Yggdrasil, the World Tree, that you will obey the Nornir in all things. That you will act on our behalf in the world of men. That you will serve us so long as you have the will to draw breath.”

“I so swear, great Skuld,” I intoned solemnly, “I swear before the World Tree!”

Skuld’s voice rose and became even more forceful. “Now, rise before me and behold yourself anew... Brunhilda of the Valkyries!”

I straightened myself again and knew without seeing that I was different. My skin was as fair as Skuld’s own. Using the magic that now seemed as natural as a reflex, I summoned a mirror and beheld my new visage, thinner face, smaller breasts but larger nipples, thick cascading blonde hair on my head, thin sparse blonde hair on my pubis, and green, green eyes.

With a gesture I clothed myself in raiments of light and brought out...my wings!

My sisters all did the same. Somehow I knew that Skuld had sworn us all to her service simultaneously, even though it seemed she spoke only to me. I now saw how she had done it, and how to perform myriads of other wonders. And more, I saw into the minds of my sisters, all different than they were before, the dark ones now fair, the pale ones now dark. I knew all their names; I knew who they had been before they had accepted the geas of the Goddess; I knew who they were now. And they knew me just as thoroughly and just as well.

I loved them. I had never felt desire for a woman before, although we Brahmin were hardly unenlightened about such practices. But now I felt desire for my sisters stronger than my desire for the handsomest man I had ever beheld.

I turned left and gazed upon my sister Goendul, dark of skin and hair. “African,” the word came to me unbidden. But before she had been a youngest child of a Japanese Jomon noble family. Her people were strangely backward and savage in some ways. The concept of woven cloth had only recently been introduced, so all but the very wealthiest wore animal skins. But such a refined sense of honor, of propriety, of subtle intrigue.

Before, she was nearly to be given in marriage to a cruel warlord. A man she hated. Well could I relate to her feelings of helplessness. But her husband-to-be had openly threatened her family. Her despair had been even greater than mine! Now, like me, she was a servant of the Norn Goddesses. Now she was my lover, and I hers.

She smiled and embraced me.

I kissed her warm, dark, full lips, and ran my fingers past her short woolly pubic hair, down to the hard nub beneath.

She moaned into my mouth and brought her hand to my nipple. My mind reeled. Such exquisite pleasure!

We wrapped our wings around each other, hiding ourselves from the world, sheltering each other so close together that we could hear one another’s beating hearts. We each played our mate like a musical instrument, building our song of lust toward a triumphant crescendo. Our minds and sensations joined in perfect harmony, we reached our joyous climax together.

And in the warm afterglow we basked in mutual tenderness, understanding, nurturing, compassion, and, yes, love. A love stronger than either of us had ever felt before.

With joy, I turned to my next sister, lovely Kara. Red of hair, blue of eye, and fairer even than Skuld, although her cheeks, nose, shoulders and the upper slopes of her breasts bore specks of color that I suddenly knew were called “freckles”.

She had been the daughter of a Mayan priestess, but her mother had run afoul of more powerful priests and had fallen into disfavor. The daughter had been slated for human sacrifice, but now she was more powerful than the dreams of the greatest ruler the Mayans had ever known. We too shared our passion and our love and our perfect knowledge of each other, unhurried but eager, intense but tender, until our love was fully consummated. Then it was once again time for each of us to meet and woo and love another of our sisters.

In time, I have no idea how long—hours? weeks?—I had loved and been loved by all the Valkyries, and by my Mistress Skuld. Yes, Skuld honored us by wearing wings of her own. She was a Norn, a Goddess. She was above us. But in celebration of the moment she became one of us too, a tenth Valkyrie. And as such, ever so briefly, I knew her mind as well as I knew my own.

When all was done, we were as one mind, a mind shaped by the Goddess but at the same time wholly our own. To my great honor, my sisters chose me to give voice to our single thought.

“Command us, Mistress!” I begged, “Allow us to repay your great gift with perfect service!”

Skuld smiled and dispatched us with but a thought, each to our separate assignments.

Child of Destiny

I heard my Mistress whisper in my ear, “I gave you the most important one, Brunhilda. Make me proud.”

I smiled inwardly. Surely she had told all of my sisters that theirs was the most important mission too. But part of me wanted to believe that even among the chosen, I was special. And I resolved to make my Mistress burst with pride.

As I appeared before the lad, I saw my task laid out before me. He could not see me, but I could see him and everything about him. Philip was the third son of the King of Macedon, barely a teenager, and a prisoner of war.

Actually he was held in surety, living as a hostage in Thebes to ensure his father’s loyalty to the ascendant Theban Oligarchy. My first task was to make certain that Philip was treated as the Prince he was, rather than as a prisoner and de facto slave. It was certainly tempting for the Theban government to cut corners with Philip and the other royal hostages. Their families were far away and would not know the difference if Thebes chose to mistreat their unwilling guests, at least not for a while.

But it was a simple matter for me to arrange for Philip to enter into the household of the powerful oligarch Pelopidas, and to be schooled by the great hero Pammenes. Both men used Philip for their pleasure, but in return Philip received a first-rate formal education, worthy even of nearby Athens at the height of its glory. In fact, his education in exile was much superior to that given his brothers in relatively “savage” Macedon. Such tutelage was common quid pro quo in that place and time, and Philip used the opportunity to fullest advantage.

In those few short years of captivity, Prince Philip grew, not only in wisdom and knowledge, but he also grew into a man’s body, hard and strong and handsome beyond his years. Looking upon him I realized that the Goddess had only changed me so much. Yes, I had wings and magic. I had sister Valkyries that I loved and Norn goddesses that I served. But I was still a woman. I had the needs and desires of a woman.

I couldn’t help it. I fell in love with my charge. Oh, I still loved my Valkyrie sisters, and we found time so share our pleasures amongst our separate missions, but watching Philip, day in, day out, he inflamed me with desire. I saw him engaging in spirited debate with his teachers, smiling and teasing even as he argued, and I loved his mind. I saw him engaged in sword play with his comrades, breathing hard, muscles rippling, body glistening with sweat, overcoming them, dominating them, making them yield, and I lusted after his body. I dreamed of him confronting me, confounding me, pressing his advantage against me, forcing me to yield, to surrender, to be taken.

Eventually the time came that I could bear it no more. On his eighteenth birthday, he celebrated with his best friends and managed to avoid his Masters. Tired and a bit drunk, he fell into his bed, fast asleep. He was so beautiful. I came to his bedside. I touched him. I caressed his cheek. I pressed my hands against the firm muscle of his chest. I ran my fingers through his sandy brown curls. I gazed into his deep brown eyes.

Wait! His EYES? He had awakened, and he saw me as I am. I could have vanished, made him forget, but he grabbed my hand.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, “Are you a dream?”

I opened my mouth to speak, to tell him, “Yes, I am a dream! Now go to sleep!” But my traitor tongue would not say the words.

“No,” he said, answering his own question with a smile, “I know my mind better than that. You’re real.” Then his eyes grew wide as he saw my wings. “But a real what?”

Finally my mouth began to work...after a fashion. “I... I-I-I-I have to go.” I turned, but he wouldn’t let go of my hand.

I should have made him let go, made him forget, made him fall back asleep. But his eyes... I stayed.

He made love to me with all the vigor and stamina of young athlete, and all the knowledge and experience... of a virgin. It wasn’t all his fault; after all, neither of us was exactly a virgin, but for both of us this was our first heterosexual experience; his first time with a woman; my first time with a man.

Even so, we kept at it until we got it right.

He was pretty well spent by the third round, but this time he was determined to make me cum. And cum I did. It wasn’t the best. It wasn’t the worst. But after... after was special. Afterwards he held me, he kissed me. I felt small and sheltered and warm. And when he finally fell asleep... I took it all away, his memory of me, of our tryst, of our lovemaking. I made his short nap feel as refreshing as a full night’s sleep. I left him alone. Our love was so secret that even he was not allowed to know of it.

I didn’t come to him every night after that, but I did more often than not. I would give him his memory of our previous nights together. He would take me, love me, conquer me, sometimes tenderly, sometimes brutally, but always he owned me. Then, warm and satisfied, I would remove his memory and put him back to sleep. He never had a daytime waking thought of me. Never remembered me. Never knew I was there. But I remembered. And I cherished the memories.

I loved my child of destiny.

When my Mistress directed, I turned the hearts of his mentor-lovers and caused them to release him and return him to his home in the north. There he was still the youngest son of the former King, youngest brother of the new King.

It took little to bring him to the throne though. Intrigues and assassinations were far too common in the court of Macedon in those days. I merely chose which plots failed and which succeeded. It was...distasteful, dealing in death, but I did what was needed. It was the only way for Philip to achieve his destiny.

Soon both of Philip’s older brothers were dead, and Philip was appointed regent over the son of his second brother, the infant “King” of Macedon.

It was not long before Philip was able to exploit of his superior military and scholarly education. He moved quickly to shore up Macedon’s strategic weaknesses with alliances. He even entered into a royal marriage with a kingdom that certainly would have wiped out his people otherwise. She was beautiful. And even though it was a marriage of convenience, they fell in love. I tried not to be jealous, but it was hard. There came a night when I revealed myself to him... and he turned me away. He chose his new wife over his guardian angel.

I cried, but I eventually got over it. I could never have truly been his anyway. I was immortal, a servant of the Goddess. He was mortal. He needed a mortal love.

He ruled wisely, and ruthlessly, and well. He moved to secure mining and shipping resources. He trained his soldiers to be utterly deadly and fanatically loyal. He educated his officers in strategy and tactics, in misdirection and surprise, in logistics and finance. Eventually he fought and defeated all the surrounding kingdoms that had once dominated and threatened Macedon. He even thrust south into Theban vassal city-state of Thessaly, all but daring Thebes to retaliate.

Thebes tried to place assassins in his court. Tried to kill him. I thwarted all their foolish plots. Soon his status as “regent” was all but forgotten. The nobility of Macedon demanded that he be crowned King in his own right.

My child of destiny had arrived.

Not content to rest on his laurels, Philip moved boldly against the Persian Empire, a nation so vast, so mighty that even I remembered tales of them from my old life among the Brahmin in faraway India. But not only did my Philip hold his own against the Persians, he pushed them back.

Only Philip saw that the Persians were overextended, that their Grecian outposts were too far from their core lines of supply and support. In only a few short years he had pushed the Persian Empire back across the Bosphorus and the Hellespont straits, out of ethnic “Greece” altogether.

It’s true that the outlying islands of the Theban Hegemony, Lesbos, Patmos, Rhodes, and the rest, had been able to repel the Persians for years. But Philip was actually the first Greek King to drive them back, to retake territory that the mighty Persians had once held securely.

And as it became clearer to all the Greeks that Thebes was beginning to lose its grip, more and more city-states threw their support to Philip. The leaders of Thebes tried to challenge their former student, but his army crushed the elite troops of “The Sacred Band of Thebes” in battle, rendering Thebes a toothless lion.

Philip formed the League of Corinth out of the shattered remains of the Theban Hegemony. He made ready to drive the hated Persians out of Asia Minor, just as he had driven them out of Greece. My former lover was poised to destroy the most powerful empire on the face of the earth. I could not have been more proud if I had been his mother.

Then my Mistress gave me my new orders. The assassins that I had deflected from Philip for years were to be deflected no more. Philip was to die.

I couldn’t understand. Philip’s heir, young Alexander, was not nearly ready to rule Macedon, much less all of Greece. Did the Norns want Greece to fall apart, just when it was finally coming together? And Alexander was completely untried in battle, certainly not ready to challenge the Persian Empire. Did the Norns want the Persians to rebound and finally crush pesky Greece?

But my orders were clear, though they ripped my heart in two. In the end, I could not stand the suspense. I couldn’t leave it to chance. I killed him myself.

My betrayal hardly required any magic at all. I merely inflamed the passions of one of Philip’s spurned lovers, driving the man to kill Philip. I didn’t even have to provide him access; the man was already in the ranks of Philip’s own elite bodyguards. It was simplicity itself. And then it was over.

My child of destiny...was dead.

Part of me died with him. Why did I go to all that trouble, to nurture him, to love him, to protect him, to raise him up...only to watch him die on the eve of greatness?

Skuld came to me. She saw my heart, my pain, my despair. She sheltered me, held me, cried with me, flooded me with compassion. Then she carried me to her Home, ravished me, and lulled me to sleep.

Sleep? For how long! I had no idea how many years I slept.

When I awoke, “young”, “untried”, “unready” Alexander had broken the back of the Persian empire and of all others that would stand in his way.

But that was no longer any of my concern, I had a new assignment. In the orient, descendants of a once-powerful warlord were trying to find and destroy all the surviving copies of a book. This book had been written by a renowned general who had been a rival to their ancestor. My mission was not just to see to the survival of The Art of War, but to ensure that efforts to destroy it instead only brought it greater fame. I had no more time to cry over Philip or wonder over Alexander. I had a job to do.

As Time Goes By

You would be amazed how quickly a thousand years can pass. But pass it did. Years before, we Valkyries had marked the hundredth anniversary of our service, we brought each other wonders, souvenirs from our travels. We loved each other in a passionate orgy to rival that first day at the beginning of our service. And after that, we celebrated the five hundredth year with equal joy and wonder and fervor.

But somehow... we allowed the millennium mark to pass unnoticed.

In that last few hundred years before the millennium, something had changed. Herja had been tasked to create a decade of drought that wiped out entire native populations from the North American Great Plains. An emerging civilization died. She was horrified. She was inconsolable. Many a night I held her while she cried herself to sleep.

Reginleif had engineered the variant of the bubonic plague that befell Eastern Europe during the reign of Justinian. Kara had arranged for the fleas. Hjoerprimul had supplied the rats. When it was over the sheer scale of the death and destruction was horrific beyond belief. My sisters who had created this horror could hardly even look each other in the eyes.

It was those three who discovered, in their desperation to hide their shame and self-loathing, that we actually could hide from each other and even from our Norn mistresses. Skuld called out to them. They heard, but didn’t answer. But they heard. Eventually the silver-tongued goddess found the words that wooed them out of hiding, and rewarded them for returning.

And I? Fair Brunhilda, speaker for—leader of—my Valkyrie sisters? I had pioneered a technique for encouraging even the most overmatched armies to face their preordained doom. On the eve of the battle I would appear in the sky above the ill-omened army in a halo of light, a winged warrior goddess in shining armor, astride a pure white winged battle steed.

I would work them into a frenzy, promising that they could not lose, assuring them that the “gods” were on their side. In short, I lied through my teeth to those good and brave men. It never failed. Entire hoards marched eagerly, enthusiastically to their deaths. If any survived, I took away their memory of me, of my speech, of my empty promises of glory.

All of us had committed atrocities unimaginable at the behest of our Mistresses. I was not the first of us who began to hate herself, to despise what we had become. But I was not the last either. Somehow in that thousandth year none of us really felt like celebrating any longer.

An Ill Wind

It was in the year 1152 according to European reckoning, almost 1500 years after we had begun our new lives, when our Mistress Skuld called us together for the first ever assignment that required all nine of us at once.

Our mission, as it turned out, was to create a giant typhoon in the central Pacific Ocean, and send it blasting through the western side of the Pacific, through the heart of Micronesia.

At that point in time, throughout the hundreds of islands of Micronesia, all was idyllic paradise. Not a one unfed. Not a one unsheltered. Hardly even a soul among them unloved or even unhappy. All living in peace and harmony. It was the closest thing on Earth to mythical Eden.

By now we Valkyries were rather experienced at the art of mass destruction. We had a fairly accurate idea exactly what would happen. They were going to die. All of them.

For the first time ever, we appealed to the Nornir. “Please!” I cried out on behalf of us all. “Please, Mistress Skuld! Please don’t make us commit this... this atrocity! We beg you, by all that is holy! Please, NO!”

Skuld’s response was brief, angry, and final. “You presume too much, Brunhilda. I am ‘all that is holy’ to you, my slave. I and my kin. Dare not to defy me, Valkyries. Micronesia must perish.“

A few of my sisters—Prima and Mist and Sveith—did try to resist, but soon the familiar compulsion was upon them. They began to ache deep inside. They felt sick—both physically ill and soul sick—they doubted themselves. Disobeying felt wrong, morally wrong. They were reneging on the payment for the price of their power, of their immortality. Soon they had no choice, none at all, but to answer the summons.

I was already there, at the center, several hundred miles due south of Molokai, five miles high, heating up the ocean. my sisters were arrayed in a giant circle around me, hundreds of miles away, so far that even at five miles altitude they were over the horizon. No matter. I saw them as clearly as I had on that fateful day, so long ago, when I had seen them through the trunk of great Yggdrasil.

They were manipulating temperature and air pressure, creating the conditions for the giant vortex. As my three laggard sisters joined the others, they filled in the final of the eight positions in the immense circle around me. Almost without thinking they fell into eight perfect compass points in a perfect circle, myself at the center. Even in performing great evil, we had our pride. There was a certain art to this, even if—perhaps especially if—we were the only ones who knew it.

In the end the storm itself was almost unnecessary. The storm surge—a forty foot wall of water—scoured those low-lying islands clean of nearly all signs of animal life. Even so, when the storm did arrive it finished off most of the rest.

There were survivors. Even in a cataclysm of this magnitude some survive. Although we had no orders about them, we were of one mind regarding them. We came to them in the night, winged goddesses bathed in unearthly light, bearing flaming swords. We gave them each the release of a swift... merciful... death.

We all envied those last ones, the ones who saw their death coming, the ones whose pain and strife were over, the ones who were finally, permanently, at peace.

We resolved to join them.

Swan Song

My Valkyrie sisters and I met in that harsh land amidst that poor beleaguered island nation northwest of France, where the wind and the rain caused the sheep to grow thick, fat coats of wool, protection against the elements. Skuld had been calling out to us for a time—hours? days? weeks?—it didn’t matter. We now knew the secret that allowed us to resist her siren song. It lay in the very oath we had sworn those many long years ago.

She could yell and order, beg and plead, woo and cajole and tempt, but she could not find us in all the Earth. Nor could she compel us to reveal ourselves. It hurt to resist her call—physically, emotionally—but we could do it.

My beautiful, beautiful Kara went first. Her glorious red hair rose up above her and became an actual flame. It consumed her, more completely than any natural fire ever could. In seconds all that remained of her were scant ashes which blew away on the wind.

At Home, beside Yggdrasil, Skuld beheld the cut end of Kara’s thread. She knew that one of her Valkyries was gone. We reeled as our Mistress screamed out her rage and anguish. But we held firm.

Mist went next. True to her namesake she spread herself, thin and wet, across the surface of that English moor. Slowly, slowly, she sank into the ground and was ended.

Now Skuld knew for certain that Kara was not an accident, a lone mishap. Her cries seemed to fill Heaven and Earth. But we paid them no mind.

Reginleif went next. She rose up into a bright fluffy cheerful cloud and turned it into a dark menacing thunderhead. In rage and pain she poured herself out onto the ground. Not as rain, but as lightning, striking the land over and over and over again, until she, and the storm, were spent and gone.

Dark Goendel my first love, summoned a hungry falcon. Then she turned herself into a raven and flew slow lazy circles until the hunter attacked. She didn’t even try to dodge her fate. Her heart continued to beat until the falcon took her to the ground at tore out her throat. And then she was no more.

Throughout it all, Skuld’s horror and grief and anger were like a harmonic counterpoint to the keening wind on the moor.

Prima wandered the hillsides looking for just the right spot. When she found it, she turned herself into a tree, grew branches, sprouted leaves, sunk roots deep into the soft soil. At first I thought that she had decided to live after all, after a fashion. But soon her choice of location became clear. She had sunk her roots into poison soil, and it soon began to kill her. Her leaves turned brown and fell. Her bark peeled and blistered. Soon she was gone.

Hjoerprimul was not one for ceremony really. She turned her entire self into blood, from the inside out, finally bursting and spilling herself on the ground.

Sveith opened her mouth and poured herself into a savage scream, until she was gone but for the sound of her pain echoing across the empty wasteland.

That left only Herja and myself. She came to me, eyes full of unbearable sadness, and kissed me, oh so tenderly, one last time. Then, faster than the fastest arrow she shot into the sky. Faster still, faster than sound itself, she climbed above the clouds. Faster still until she’s was above the ice clouds. Still accelerating until she was above the very air, and still shooting up, up into the heavens. She didn’t last long without even that most basic of sustenance. But her momentum carried her ever onward. Out among the planets. Out, eventually, among the stars.

I was alone. As always it was my burden, my honor, to speak for my sisters.

“Brunhilda!” cried Skuld, “Will you, even you, leave me too? Why are you...HOW are you defying me?”

“I must, my Mistress. I can no longer bear to be your assassin, your mass murderer, your ghoul. As to how? When we swore our loyalty to you, we swore for as long as we had will to draw breath. We longer wish to draw breath, Mistress. You have no hold on us.”

“You’ll break my heart! You were my first, my favorite, my Mohini, my ‘prettiest one’. Please, don’t go! Stay with me!”

“I can’t. I can’t. You call me ‘Prettiest One’, but I’m not. When I look at myself, all I can see is a rabid tigress who kills prey even when she is not hungry. I see a vulture that does not wait for its carrion to die, but picks meat off of the most beautiful of the living. I see the face of meaninglessness, pointlessness...death, pain, suffering. I can’t, I won’t live this mockery of a life any longer.”

“Please, let me come to you. Let me talk to you. Let me explain!”

“There is nothing to explain. Gods and Goddesses delight in senseless death. But we poor mortals cannot.”

“No. None of it was senseless! It was all for a reason! I couldn’t tell you. There are reasons that we cannot share the future with you. There are things that even the Valkyries are not allowed to know. I couldn’t tell you, but I DID show you, Brunhilda. I showed you on your very first mission. Philip had to die so that Alexander could rise up and conquer. All of your missions were like that. All of them made the way smoother and better for those to come.”

“Even Micronesia?”

“Especially Micronesia!”

“I...I’m sorry, Mistress. It’s not enough. I cannot bear this burden any longer. Good-bye.”

I fell to the ground, barely able to contain my sorrow. Not yet!

I turned my magic inward upon myself. I turned myself to stone. Not a hard stone. I was not to be a monument for the ages. I just had to last long enough. Long enough for the herder of these sheep to find me.

And then it was time for my sorrow to bear fruit. Two tears. One from each eye. As my cheeks turned to frozen stone, so did my tears. Sad amber teardrops on my sad sandstone face.

The First Tearbearer

And so, Margery, you picked up my sad amber tear from my sad face, as I knew you would. It sank into your hand, and now its power suffuses you. You are the first bearer of my sadness, of my Tear.

The story I just told you is a cautionary tale. You have power now. Not the full power of the Valkyries, but power enough to do good.

Take my other tear. Feel its heat. Feel its yearning. Find it a suitable vessel, a partner, a friend to help you bear my pain and your own too. You are the first, but many others will follow you. They will remember me. They will remember you. Make their memories of you good memories, happy memories, heroic memories. Help soften the blow of my sad memories.

The Newest Tearbearer

She was but a wee little thing, the American. Backpacking through England on her summer break from college. Although she hardly looked that old. In fact, were it not for the rucksack, the dirty blue jeans and the accent, you would have thought she were a young local girl, not even sixth form yet. Wild curly locks of red hair, cute little freckles, and blue, blue eyes. Even her name made her seem like a local: Sioban MacMillan. Why, my own wife’s name is Siobhan, spelled the original way. I’m told the name is unusual in the States to say the least. And MacMillan? Ha! The MacMillan Farm is not five miles down the road!

But here she was, as American as they come, eyes alive and ready for adventure, stepping into my humble pub. Alone. And of course Danny Willoughby would be here today, nothing better to do on a working man’s day than sit in my pub and run up his tab. But he was the biggest brute in the county so I tried not to cross him more often than I had to.

He sized her up immediately and said, “Pretty lit’le lady, come sit with me and be sociable. What’s your poison?”

She looked him up and down... and walked past him, ignoring him. Not generally a wise move for man nor woman. Looking me steady in the eye, she asked, “You have John Courage on tap?”

“O’course!” I replied, “Mild, then?".

She frowned at me, wrinkling her nose. “No. You have ‘Best’, don’t you?” she said, laying down a fifty pound note. “Keep ’em coming until that runs out.”

“I SAID,” the big man blustered, clearly not taking the hint, “that yer money’s no good here, lit’le girl. Now let me buy that pint and we’ll get to know each other a bit.”

“Danny Willoughby,” I said, fingering my shillelagh under the counter, “The lady doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“No, no,” said the girl, “I’ve got this.”

She rounded on him and said the most ridiculous thing imaginable. “I’ll arm wrestle you for it. Winner pays for my drink.”

“I’m not arm wrestlin’ a bird!” said Danny.

She did a double take at his choice of words, but sallied onward, “You forfeit? Good enough. I’m paying.”

He grabbed her shoulder and seemed about to argue it with her.

“Danny Willoughby, leave her alone now!”

Seeing the mood of the bar arrayed against him, he decided to play coy.

“No, no, Reg. I’m just takin’ her up on her offer. Arm wrestle. Winner pays.”

Off to the nearest tall table they went, a crowd of my patrons gathered about them.

They took their positions. His big mitt engulfed her tiny hand.

Speaking to her like she was a child, he said, “Now just say ‘go’ when yer ready, wee one.”

“Go.” WHAM!

It was that quick. The big man’s hand hit the table. Hard. She got up, as calm and cool as the after-storm, and walked back to the bar for her pint.

“NOW WAIT JUST A MINUTE!” shouted Danny, “Every man and boy of you saw! She jumped the gun on me!”

She sighed. I swear I heard her mutter under her breath, “Willoughby boys, nothing but trouble in Margery’s day. Nothing but trouble now.”

Now I had no idea who this Margery was, but she had certainly sized up the Willoughby clan fair quick.

She turned and walked back. “Best two out of three?” she said.

Danny-boy turned bright red, he did. “You’re on,” said he, through gritted teeth.

They took their positions again and clasped hands. This time she threw his words back at him, “Just say ‘go’ when you’re ready, Danny.”

This being Danny Willoughby, he didn’t take any chance this time. He tried to jump the gun on her. Her arm moved not a fraction of an inch. She reminded him, not a smidgeon of strain in her voice, “Danny, just say ‘go’.“

His eyes grew wide, but finally he had no choice. He gave the word. His hand hit the table. Just that fast.

She stood to go again, but he grabbed her arm. Danny just had to prove himself to be the slow learner that he was. “NOW SEE HERE, LASS! YOU’LL NOT BE—unnnnph”

Sure enough and she booted him in the nards. And not lightly either. Danny’s feet cleared the floor by a good ten inches if it was a mite.

And if the launch was hard, the landing was even harder. That was a right lot of beef hitting the floor all at once. Plates and pints all over the pub bounced in sympathy with him. But that was all the sympathy he would get.

Looking down at Danny, writhing and moaning on the floor, she seemed to make a decision. Every eye in the place turned from Danny to the girl. Affecting a clearly fake American Southern accent she addressed the assembled.

“Mah name is Sioban MacMillan, and Ah’m cle-ahly a wiltin’ flow-ah o’ womanhood. Would one o’ ya’ll biiig, stroooong English Gentlemen be so kahnd as to die-rect me to th’ Angel Stone?”

Heh. She was one of those. Stonehenge was too “touristy” for her I imagine, so she was slumming about here in the North Moors, seeking our local legend.

No one moved. Clearly Danny had got what was coming to him, but that didn’t mean that any other man Jack in the place wanted to tangle with her.

Ah, enough of this. I looked about for someone level-headed. Bill MacGregor was still in his seat, minding his business, slightly amused look on his face.

“Billy,” said I, “If you’ll cover the bar, I’ll take ’er meself.”

“Uh, you sure, Reg?” said Bill, but seeing my stormy expression, he stood and walked behind the bar. I handed him my apron and my shillelagh as I passed him.

“Oy!” said he. slamming the latter down on the counter, “Stop your gawking. This is a public house, not a bloody theatre. Unless you have an order, kindly take your seats.”

Everyone grumbled and found their seats as the young lady and I departed.

It was a bit of a hike to the stone so we had a some time to talk along the way. That is when I found out that she was an American college student, tiny though she was, and from Oregon.

“Ah,” I said, “So not a stranger to rain!”

She smiled. “No, not at all.”

“Well, then you’ll like it here.”

She laughed. She had a nice laugh, and smiling eyes to go with it.

As we came up to the knee-high reddish brown lump, I said, “Well, there she is. The largest piece of sandstone in the county, perhaps in all of England.”

She gasped. “Is...is that all that’s left?”

I didn’t know what to say to that. “Well, that’s all there is, ma’am. I suppose there used to be more, but you couldn’t prove it by me.”

She cast off her rucksack and fell to her knees. I’d swear she was crying, but she made not a peep.

“Oh, Brunhilda,” she said, “What’s become of you?”

She reached out her hand.

“Ah, Miss, you shouldn’t touch it. The geologists say that touching it makes it decay quicker. Oils in the skin or some wot.”

“Oh,” she said sheepishly, “of course.”

“Well, ‘prettiest one’,” she said to that lump of brown rock, “I have your right Tear, the one that Margery gave to Doris Knightcastle. I’ve only been doing this for a couple of years now. Patricia—she has your left Tear, Margery’s Tear—she’s still showing me the ropes. But I’m learning! What else is there to say? Oh! After all these years, we’ve found a new Master. But he’s good to us. He doesn’t make us kill people. Not that you’d let him if he tried. We’re... we’re happy. We’ve done some good. We have more sad memories than just yours. But there are also amazing heroics. Selflessness, sacrifice, courage. Quite a legacy to live up to. But the good outweighs the bad over all. Thank you. Thank you for sharing your life, your pain, your... your magic. You did good, Brunhilda. In the end, you did good.”

I certainly had no idea what all that was about, but it was strange enough that I couldn’t really forget it.

She stood and thanked me. We walked back to town.

I have a spare room upstairs that I occasionally let out, and the young Yank stayed there a couple of days. As far as I knew she never went back to the Stone. No, she strolled around town in the mornings and drank at my pub in the evenings, just a couple of days, just long enough to become a local attraction.

It was the same week that some excitable old codger with more mouth than mind started reviving that silly legend about the “ghost angels of the Moors”. Said he saw her flying around one night. Silliness.

Then one evening it happened. Sioban MacMillan, the American, had her last drink on that fifty pound note. It was time for her to go. The next morning she hitched a ride toward London with Nigel Barkley. She gave an odd little smile when Nigel introduced himself, and then climbed into the passenger seat of his lorry.

And off she went, out of our lives forever.