Word count: 1,011


Her grandmother’s estate (you couldn’t call it a house, persay, not with the ten acres of land it sat on) was just outside Destiny City, on a hill that over looked most of it. It was modeled after Elizabethan England, with a hint of Victorian and Gothic themes, and was well over a hundred years old. Her mother had never grown up in the estate; Beth had been sent to boarding school at a young age and refused to spend any time in her mother’s house. For Tracey, the old woman had simply worn a tired smile and let the girl do as she willed; high society had never been her daughter’s thing.

The house itself was two stories along a east/west axis. The southern façade was awash in small windows and ornamentation, and over looked the entrance courtyard. Twin towers jutted out from the front, outlining the door. They went up another story, with very tiny windows at the top. She’d never said why, or what was up there, and the doors to both towers had long ago been sealed. The inside of the house contained enough rooms to house a family of seven and the necessary service staff, with room to space, but Grandmother Tracey never used more than the west wing of the house. She and her small group of servants, two maids, her cook, the doorman, and her driver, didn’t take up any more space than that.

The east wing was never usually mentioned in stories of the house. Mary had never asked why, though in her younger years she had gone exploring into the eastern wing. Or tried to. Like the spires, the doors (baring one secret passage) to the eastern wing were sealed. Mary didn’t mind much. The west wing was more than enough to explore, with its hidden doors, and fake closets.

The northern face of the building was covered in large windows, overlooking a huge garden. The garden was divided into four sections, each not perfectly square or rectangular. Each had its own theme, be it formal garden, water garden, maze or, ‘generic’ with a fountain in the middle.

A set of bridges connected all the gardens together, and focused on a central point in the gardens. It was a sculpture of a person standing firm, sword point down in the ground, head held high. Time had worn away some of the person’s features, but it was still discernable as a he. A cloak fell to his ankles, armor almost loose on his frame. He bore no family crest, no sign of nobility, simply a broach clasping his cloak around his neck, with a simple archway on it. There were no stories of this man, except that he was a fierce warrior. He reminded Mary of Argabauth every time she when to the statue. As though this was what he would look like if he was simply a human. She would sometimes sit for entire afternoons on one of the benches facing him and just talk out loud, imagining Arga speaking back to her.

Her favorite place, besides the statue, was a bridge in the back of the garden. She’d always been drawn to it, even as a grade schooler. Back when she was still “Beth’s Mary.” It connected one of the small islands in the water garden to a small gazebo. It was secluded behind some trees, and had a small bump out so you could look over and watch the koi fish swim. Two small lanterns on the railing posts lit the area at night. Tracey had once said that it was supposed to mimic a Japanese tea garden, with a European twist. The bridge itself was made out of stone, supported on a layer of concrete to give it the illusion of full stone construction.

Mary found it to be one of the most magical spots in the entire estate, especially at night.

The air was cool on her face as she moved through the garden. She’d been out exploring as Bifröst again, still not sure what it was she needed to, well, do. Her boots clicked quietly as she walked up the bridge to her spot. The Page let out a breath of air, hand gently resting on the railing. Her head tilted back, eyes closed in a calm, serene expression.

It was her sanctuary, her place of piece, and not even her grandmother or the staff encroached on it. It was something that Mary was eternally grateful for; it had sheltered her when her mother flew into a rage, saved her from her father’s fake words, or her late grandfather’s harsh eyes. The soft ever present sound of the pond and fish, the way the wind moved the trees, it was a world in its own.

She wondered how long she’d stay with her grandmother this time. Nothing had happened, persay, except what she overheard upon returning home. The house was tense though. It was as if the slightest word would send someone into a flying rage.

She’d already been slapped by her mother once since she returned.

Bifröst did not want it to happen again so soon.

For now though, lips parted as a small sigh escaped her lips, lilac eyes opening to watch the sky, she would tread as lightly as she could, while being Bifröst. A ripple of energy surged down her spine at the mention of her name.

“Bifröst…” It echoed in her head, but it… didn’t sound like her. Or it did. And didn’t.

“Bifröst, say it.”

There was something, she needed to do, wasn’t there? Something… something she had to…

Say.

Her mouth moved, eyes closing almost instinctually. Her voice floated to her ears, saying words she didn’t know she knew, but at the same time knew she knew.

“I pledge my life and loyalty to Chronos and to the Bifröst.
I humbly request your aid, so that in return I may give you mine.”

There was the smallest of a gasp and then Bifröst Page disappeared in a blip of light.