Two decades ago, I first dreamt of Brunhilda.

I’d had weird, science fiction dreams before her, but she’s the first I found myself compelled to draw the following morning. And, for a time, I forgot about her.

Some years later, I dreamt of her again.

She’s always felt like a tragic person to me. Trapped in sleep because if she awakes it meant disaster to the waking world. Dreams are strange like that; belief left unchallenged to rationalization.

Naming her was difficult. She wasn’t the damsel of Чайко́вский’s ballet and certainly not the naïve girl of the Disney film. She wore this heavy, glistening armor.

And this Sleeping Beauty was angry.

I wonder if somewhere I had heard the myth of Brynhildr as a small child. This Norse valkyrie, sentenced to sleep by Odin, and awoken by her true love, Sigurðr.

But, Sigurðr forgets her.

Later, he returns and courts her, disguised as his friend, King Gunnarr. Gunnarr and Brynhildr wed.

From Sigurðr’s wife, Guðrún, Brynhildr learns of the deception. She demands Gunnarr kill Sigurðr. Which he does.

Depending on the version, Brynhildr either throws herself onto Sigurðr’s funeral pyre to rejoin her true love in death, or she laughs with sadistic joy in the grieving Gunnarr’s face.

Speed painting process: