Word Count: 540

She spoke to him a little more freely every day.

It began with Valhalla asking her questions.

“How are you today?”

“Do you have enough food?”

“Did you have a home before this?”

Lucasta answered him succinctly.

“Restless.”

“This vile substance is not food.”

“No.”

If she spoke at length, it was to complain about the cramped conditions of the cage and the lack of suitable nourishment. Valhalla only smiled and reassured her that her place there was only temporary, that he would make sure that she was freed soon.

She began to look forward to his sporadic visits. She learned that he does not always come at a specific time, but dropped by at random points throughout the day when he had the opportunity. Sometimes he arrived early in the morning, carrying a beverage he told her was called “coffee.” The next day he might come closer to lunch, hastily tossing a crinkly wrapper into the trashcan as he chewed the last bite of food.

Lucasta envied his freedom. She would even eat the revolting food he consumed, for it couldn't be worse than what she had now.

“Paris hates it when I eat fast food,” Valhalla told her. They're always quiet so as not to be overheard, but this time Lucasta heard a conspiring tone in his voice, too, like he expected her to keep his secret.

She would, only because she had no one else to tell it to.

He sang sometimes when he worked on the other cages, soft and quiet like he hoped no one would hear him. Valhalla's voice was smooth. Lucasta found the singing soothing, and often fell asleep to the sound of it.

“Where were you before they brought you here?” he asked her one day when he came to her cage, once she had awakened with a stretch and yawn.

“A park,” she said.

“And before that?”

Lucasta's answer was to stare at him blankly.

“Don't you know?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“What were you doing at the park?”

Lucasta rolled her eyes. His questions were tedious. She knew her answer would do her little good, because she did not remember anything before waking up one morning from dreams of the girl with golden hair. She didn’t know how she came to be in the city — which she had learned was known as Destiny City, a suitable name in its own way; she didn't even know to whom she was born, or when, though she didn’t feel old. She didn’t feel young either, and assumed she must be somewhere between the two.

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to,” Valhalla assured her.

She made an impatient noise and told him anyway. “I was searching for someone.”

Valhalla grew silent for a moment, clearly attempting to determine if she'd even meant to answer. When she continued to stare at him levelly, he asked her, “Who were you looking for?”

“A girl,” she says. “Her name is Ganymede.”

His eyes widened. He looked surprised. Lucasta's heart fluttered in anticipation. She watched as comprehension dawned on him. After that, Valhalla settled slowly. Another one of his wide smiles slid across his face.

“I can help with that,” he said.