Flooded by the words of the woman with the voice of angel’s choirs, Anela, in open contrast to her own words, tried to find a moment of solace in an innocent distraction. She closed her lids slightly, until her eyes became but two slits, and she even tilted herself forward, towards the figure of the Goddes, but her mind drifted away.

There was one tumultuous thought rumbling through Anela’s mind. A mindful fresco of her imagination, a wild steed with four crimson hoofs, beating the green pastures of her delight. In this idyllic picture there stood a fresh lake, made of perfectly still water, so still that not a wave moved, not even at the shore, where the silver line of liquid blended without interruption into a patch of grass, straight and soft, like certain hills, and steep, divided in two by a little gorge. Laying there, far from the hectic trifles of life, Anela crafted acrobatic entanglements with the beautiful lady Cecilia. 

It was the work of a bright imagination, one which Anela had always prided herself of. And in her thoughts, the beautiful lady laid reclining on the patch of grass, her hand  sliding from her chin along the neck and further, to the line of chainmail. Better. Anela imagined the lady without chainmail, covered instead in a rich silky fabric, of silver reflections, glowing like Cecilia’s skin glowed. Her hand turning, just before her bosom and returned towards the neck, along the jaw, up until the edge where it sharply turn to reach the ear. She moaned even, with a choir of angels as her voice, and reclined her head back arching her body.

Anela imagined sitting by the arched lady, caressing her shoulders, and pushing the tip of her fingers to climb Cecilia’s bosom, and gazing at the knees of the Goddess. Oh, she thought, I wish she were real! I wish she was just like this, with her beautiful silk fabric to cover her and her steel boots with the raised heel. 

That’s when Anela opened her eyes again. She ejected her head forward, like a turtle sprinting out of her shell. Her eyes bulging as she finally noted that the magician, or Goddess, did wear indeed slanky war boots, clad in steel, encircled with mastery at the ankle, and with a sizable raised iron heel. 

“Oh, by the heavens! Please be for real, I so want to believe in you.” whispered Anela, biting her lips. 

If she had to play the part of the devotee, that would have been her Goddess: a shield-maiden that did not dress like a man. Let her be called the way she pleases, thought Anela, let her make all the fuss about her chastity, without which her prowess in battle begone; let her even amaze all of us with tricks unseen before. It was a fun game, to think of it, one which Anela felt more than inclined to play.

“Don’t go anywhere, please.” she said, and turned to the other girl gesturing her to voice their pleas together “Tell of your powers and of your battles. Firm standing the fact that for a pair of boots like yours, I’d too kill anybody on a battlefield.”