Path to Persuasion?

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“Are you sure you don’t want to come to California with me? It would be a lot farther from your mother than just the other side of the state. You could do whatever you wanted out there without her breathing down your neck.”

Rosalie leaned back against the magnolia tree that towered above her, staring at the giant cream-colored blossoms so she wouldn’t have to look at the man that lay stretched out on his side on the picnic blanket they shared. “I… can’t. I’m not strong enough yet.”

He frowned, and shifted so that he could stare up at the sunlight through the branches as well. “Rosa… One of these days you’re going to have to break free of your mother and live your own life. I wish you would come to California with me. Get away from the South. It’s stifling a spirit like yours.”

She laughed softly, and wrapped her arms around her knees as she drew them to her chest. She didn’t like where this was going. “Maybe when mama dies… then I really will be free and no phone can stop me.”

He groaned and laughed as he rolled onto his knees there in front of her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box. He must have seen the panicked look on her face, because he laughed and was quick to reassure her. “No, I’m not proposing. I already know that you’re not ready to come to California with me. It wouldn’t do any good.”

“I wish I was.” She gave him a weak smile, not releasing her hold on her knees.

“I know. And I wish I could say that I could wait for you. But you know I can’t. Life is going to separate us, it seems.” He opened the box and presented her with a silver ring, a carnelian cabochon set in the center. “I just wanted you to have something to remember me by.” He reached for her right hand, not her left, and slid it onto her ring finger. “Think of me fondly, always.”

She wanted to call out to him to stop, that she would go with him to California, but as he rose to his feet with a sad smile and walked away, she couldn’t make her voice work. They had kept in touch through the internet over the years, but that was the last day she actually saw him…

Yesterday had changed everything.

Rosalie stood at her back door once more, with her phone to her ear. It was ringing on the other end, and she waited for him to pick up. He had agreed to her proposal yesterday when she had asked him, and that had opened up a whole new can of worms.

It had been good to hear his voice, better than she had expected, and even better to find out he'd broken up with his girlfriend a few months ago. They had talked for a long time, about everything, more openly than their awkward e-mails and stilted facebook posts had really allowed. Eight years… She couldn’t believe that it had been eight years already and she still felt this way. If Jared were to call her up, she wouldn’t feel anywhere near the same and she had been more recently involved with him.

“Hello?” His voice on the other end of the line made her mouth go dry. “Rosa?”

“Hey. Sorry to bother you.” Stupid, Rosalie, stupid… is that all you can say?

“No. You know it’s never a problem when you call.” She could almost see the grin on his face just from the inflections of his voice. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I was wondering if we could just talk for a while?” No, Rosalie, it’s not a question, why are you making it sound like one?

“Sure. What about?”

“Well, how much I’ve missed you, for starters…”

* * *

It’s not the way that people might have imagined her home. Or at least they might not have imagined that she would have a room like this in her house. Dark paneling, a bright fire blazing in a stone hearth, a large leather armchair in which the Lady Knight reclines, seeming to contemplate life, the universe, and everything. Yes, the answer is 42. But there’s more to life than that. There’s a pay-per-view event coming up soon, and there’s a chance for her to prove her worth. She has a new manager, and a new chance at something that she should have seized years ago. Undoubtedly these are the things that are on her mind as she sits there and stares at the flames before looking up at the camera that’s been waiting for her.

Valhalla.

She pauses here to let the name sink in, all the round sounds, the way that the name would tug at those deep heartstrings of anyone that has Viking heritage. Or in Stygian’s case, it would probably remind him fondly of some video game. But that’s beside the point.

Yeah, it’s just a name for an event, but the connotations of that name… I wonder how many of my opponents really understand what the name Valhalla means. To them it’s just a last man standing event, a gauntlet. Who can survive the longest. Maybe it means the glory of the shot at something bigger than themselves.

But me? I know what it means. Valhalla, hall of the chosen warriors of Odin. The most bold and brave of the warriors that have walked walk this earth, half of those who have ever died in battle. The Einherjar, chosen to face Ragnarok, escorted to Valhalla by the Valkyries.

At this point she stands and moves to a record player that was off-camera until the view followed her motions. Yes, we’re talking vinyl, the giant black disk with groves for the needle to follow. She carefully lifts the needle and guides it into that groove on the edge of the disk, smiling at the small crackles and pops that come with a well-loved record. She’s clearly listened to this one more than a few times in her life.

Her eyes close for a moment, a nostalgic smile creeping onto her lips as the strains of Wagner begin to float into the room: “Ride of the Valkyries”, for those who are familiar enough to know it. It’s a rather famous song, however, so those that don’t know the name ought to at least recognize the tune. The volume is low, but the music continues to play in the background as she looks back at the camera and continues to speak.

I don’t know what sort of Valkyries there will be at Pick Your Poison. Will there be lovely winged ladies waiting to raise my hands at the end of the road in victory? Better yet, give me two handsome warriors, brothers in arms to welcome me to the proverbial halls of Odin, because I’m going to make it to the end of this thing.

There’s some good competition out there in the IWF. This, I will never deny. I’ve had to work my ass off to keep up and prove my worth. But here’s the thing: I have been proving myself. I have been proving that I’ve got what it takes. I have the strength, and the drive, and the ring awareness, and the skills. It doesn’t hurt that I’ve got the good looks, either.

She grins and shoots the camera a wink, before she crosses her den to the fireplace and takes down a drinking horn from the mantel. It’s filled with mead, not that the camera can see the honey-gold liquid within. She knows she can’t ride this wave of “something to prove” forever. If she wins this Road to Valhalla match, she’s going to have to step it up a notch.

Maybe these thoughts can be read on her face, and maybe they can’t. But for now, she raises the horn toward the camera, a toast, an acknowledgment of her opponents.

I salute you, my opponents in the ring this weekend. May the best warrior win their right to the ranks of the fine warriors before them, and that chance to become one of the truly elite.

She drinks from the horn, eyes never leaving the camera, as it fades to black.