Gyda never imagined herself growing as harsh and intimidating as her mother; she knew for a very long time that she’d never be a Shieldmaiden. So she was shocked when she opened her eyes, comprehended her surroundings, and felt a large, warm hand wrap around her own.
The small girl blinked, looking up at Freyja. “M-me?” She bit her lip. “Why me? I’m not… I don’t belong here. I’m not a warrior.”
Freyja stroked Gyda’s hair with her other hand. “Little one, we took you from Midgard because we needed someone to gather flowers for the halls of Valhalla.”