Vikings Drabbles

⤭ in this life

if not in this life, then you will be reunited in the next to the joyous resounding of valhalla's horns.

THE CACOPHONOUS SOUNDS of battle echo around you, but every cry and clang of iron against steel is muted by the haunting and forlorn voice of Halfdan the Black before either side ever met on the open field. Þat mælti mín móðir, he sang, the woods reverberating with the age-old song, at mér skyldi kaupa. With a cry, you lift your shield —painted blue and black for Bjorn Ironside and Lagertha— blocking a blow from one of Harald Finehair's men and then another.

You push forward through the sluggishness of your limbs and the blood and sweat stinging your eyes, lashing out with a tight sword thrust. The man in front of you bellows in pain, axe falling from his grasp as he looks down at the sword hilt pressed tight against leathers. As quickly as one foe falls, another takes their place. You spin, searching for Halfdan in the madness, and lift your shield once again —nigh too late.

Timbers crack under the weight of a bloodstained maul wielded by a brute, three times your size, his eyes burning with bloodfever. The force of the impact forces you onto your back. You fall, you die. Your father's words as clear in your mind as if he lay beside you speaking them now. You roll to your side, chest heaving as you watch the maul embed into the soft earth where you had just lain.

The shield shatters —splinters flying— and you scramble back from the berserker. The earth beneath your hands and boots slick with mud and gore, but against your outstretched arm, you feel the leather-wrapped hilt of a sword. Pushing up from the muck, you drive the sword upward into the brute's neck, ripping it free with a hoarse shout. And still, you can hear Halfdan singing with his brother everything.

You stumble on your feet, vision blurring and strength fleeting —the battle feels endless, and you have lost count of the lives taken by your blade. Gasping, you press your hand to your side, to the source of the burning pain. A splinter of your blue-and-black shield protrudes at the edge of your mail shirt. Your shaking hand comes away painted bright red. Looking skyward, you find two ravens circling overhead, and everything slows. The Allfather watches. In a heartbeat, you wrench the splinter free from flesh, dropping the jagged piece of wood. Blood sluices down the front of your armor. There is nothing to staunch the bleeding. The threads of fate inescapable.

Through the mist and beyond the bloodshed, there is a lull in the fight as two brothers meet. Your feet carry you of their own accord toward Halfdan and Harald. You are almost there when Harald swings his blade downward, and your scream will forever haunt him.

YOU SIT NEXT to Halfdan as he sharpens the edge of his axe. One final stroke of the whetstone, and he sets the weapon aside, turning to you, his beloved. Halfdan presses his forehead against your, rough fingers trailing over your soft cheek and around to the braid binding your hair. "You are ready?" You ask, unable to hide the tremble in your voice and bottom lip. This battle is more than just a squabble for land or a title. It is a war amongst brothers. And this morning feels different.

For so long, you stood by Harald and Halfdan. A shieldmaiden and stalwart friend, unwavering. Harald believed you to love him and his brother equally, and yet, when the time to choose came —you broke oath and faith, following your heart. You know you would make the same decision a hundred times over without regret when Halfdan places his lips upon yours. His kiss is bittersweet, both a promise and a goodbye.

"The gods have already decided the outcome of today," he breathes, unable to look away from your eyes —as though he can see his fate within. The strings of destiny had been woven by the Norns long ago, and no one could escape the knots and threads. "If I am meant to die" —his lips brush over your cheek— "then I am ready for Valhalla." Should either of you fall today, the Valkyries would be waiting to carry you home, and there would be celebrations in Odin's halls.

You lean back, gaze flitting across his face —committing the soft look in his dark and warm eyes to memory and tattoos and scars on his face too. Reaching for him, you push aside the strands of golden hair that fell across his face. You will make sure you remember him if the gods mean to part you this day. "If we are meant to live?" You ask, cupping his face in your hands.

His lips twitch upward. "The sea calls," Halfdan answers. If you are meant to survive the day, Halfdan will ferry you away from this life of bloodshed with a crew of trusted drengr to sail the open waters. A dream you and he discussed many waking nights since seeing the distant lands to the south and beyond. If you are meant to live, he will take the only woman he's ever loved to be his wife.

The cry of a war horn is both far off and too near. Its low rumble echoing through the misty woods. Silence falls over everyone within the camp —the time had come. Before you part, you take another kiss. You would remember the feel of his lips against yours to spur you through the coming fight. "I will see you on the other side," you whisper, tracing the fading blue-black of his tattoos. "In this life or the next." Halfdan has a sinking feeling in his gut that it will be the latter.

TIME FALLS STILL when Halfdan falls to his knees before his brother. Odin and Thor breathe strength into you yet. You punch through those standing in your path, sliding to your knees to break his fall. "Halfdan." You breathe, looking upon him through hot tears. His dark eyes are unfocused and unblinking. His blood stains your hands as you press against the weeping gash on his neck. It is too late. The Valkyries must keep him now. Drawing in a slow breath, you place your split lips against his forehead, a final kiss, before laying him gently on a field watered with blood. In this life or the next, you think, turning your gaze skyward again, wailing at how it feels to have your heart snatched from your chest.

On shaking legs, you rise —barely able to stand straight— sword in hand. "What have you done?!" You cry, moving toward Harald, swinging your blade in a sloppy, wide arc. He steps back, and you come for him again. This time, he blocks the blow, knocking the sword from your blood-slick hands. Harald lowers his sword. Already he had slain his brother. He will not raise his blade against another he loves today.

He shakes his head. "I will not fight you," he grits out, voice shaking. I cannot, is what he means. Harald knows the look in your fevered eyes —one of grief and madness that will see you follow his brother into the Hall of the Slain. "Do not ask me to kill you." It is almost a plea, even with the taste of betrayal bitter on his tongue.

"Bacraut!" You shout, falling to your knees as he turns his back to rejoin the fray. The moment's reprieve brings another wave of pain, washing over you like the sea breaking on a rocky shore. Head hanging low, you know the Valkyries call to you on this day too. The front of your mail shirt and tunic beneath are stained red, as is the thigh of your britches. There is no going back.

You press your hand against the gaping puncture and reach for your sword, using it as a crutch to stand. The gods grant you one final breath. Gripping tight to the hilt, you run, shouting for all to bear witness, and when Harald turns and you fall upon his sword. His eyes are wide, lips parted in disbelief as he looks down. You drop your sword and grip onto Harald's shoulders, pulling yourself closer to him and farther onto the blade. You inhale, then choke, sputtering as blood fills your mouth and trickles from your lips. Despite the pain, you are at peace —ready to greet the winged women and the Allfather with a smile upon your lips.

Harald pulls his sword back, then drops the bloody blade and holds you against him, unable to hide his anguish. Your legs give, and he eases you to the ground, feeling your lifeblood seep betwixt his fingers —a permanent stain no water will be able to cleanse. Ravens circle in the grey clouds. The horns of the Valkyries resound across the battlefield, heard only by the dead and dying. Harald glances to the sky. "Go," he sighs, lips ghosting over your brow, "Valhalla awaits." They will have gained two of the strongest fighters he's ever known, and the battles will be all the richer for it. "Halfdan awaits," he whispers. A faint smile twists your lips. You can taste the honey-sweet of Odin's mead on your lips already. One final breath, then your eyes slip shut, never to open in this life again.